The Resurgence
by PhoenixFlame6
Summary: Near the dawn of Kain's conquest, Zephon looks into histories better left forgotten and risks the wrath of the empire. Demons stalk the land while a band of humans fight to hold what is theirs.
1. The Cave

**The Resurgence**

**By: **Phoenix Flame

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Legacy of Kain_, but all the OCs are mine. A couple of gently-used shoutouts are half mine.

**Author's Note: **This little plot bunny has been prowling around my skull for a while, and grew quite a bit in the process. I loves me some Raziel, but I wanted to write a story starring a different lieutenant. I enjoy feedback of all kinds, so, in the all likelihood of sounded cliché, please read and review!

**Chapter 1: **The Cave

* * *

Moonlight glittered off the swaying grass, giving it a look of wetness though it had not rained in weeks. The stretch of grass suited the predators. Foxes crept through the heather, hidden from other creatures stumbling through the field. From above an eagle easily noticed the shifting of the long blades as something scampered underneath. But the foxes remained burrowed in their dens while the eagles took safety in the trees. Fiercer predators stalked through the night.

"What are we even looking for?"

"Something that died a week ago," Ryszard snapped.

Selik eyed the grizzled vampire who rode in front. Ryszard's leather cuirass was mottled with dried blood, while his eyes stayed fixed on the dark horizon.

"Then why did Zephon order this patrol?" Selik asked.

"The remnants of the humans we fought near Stierstadt fled this way," Trennen answered with annoyed patience.

Selik could almost hear Trennen's eyes rolling. He wasn't so much older, only a decade. Snorting, Ryszard and turned back in his saddle. The moonlight gleamed off the scar across his cheek and nose. Selik paused at the older vampire's derisive gaze.

"_I_ fought them, unlike you two whelps," he said. "Any left would have died of septic by now."

Trennen's horse skipped a stride; Selik felt the vampire stiffening with frustration. "They could have found another village to shelter them."

Ryszard's smiles were always half a snarl. "Wrong again. They headed south. The only village that way within three-days ride was abandoned months ago from plague." He touched the hilt of his broadsword. "Any single houses left are too scared to risk it. We are looking for their corpses or any of the human's army."

Selik groaned inwardly. Ryszard was normally taciturn, until he got the chance to correct a mistake. Then he became very talkative, either with words or fists. Worse still, he was bored. Selik knew little of Trennen, beyond the fact he loathed his superior.

This was his third patrol, and already Selik understood why his sire preferred to design stratagems from the war room and send out parties to deal with more straining work. More _boring _work, he amended.

While the Dumahim laughed and called it laziness, Zephon won his battles with strategy before force. Zephon designed the means to take Nactholm, thought to be impregnable with its encompassing lake.

Arrogant Raziel claimed his legendary victory over Baldur, but had _he_ thought of a way to get an army over a lake? A swill of pride filled the vampire for his clan. That did not make him any happier to be out roving the countryside for humans that were either dead or dying.

He wondered if Zephon would have sent them out on this mission if the men were not Blue Thrones, the latest humans who couldn't stand the thought of being conquered. These in particular came from the nobility, a class much eviscerated in the last fifty years.

Selik smiled at a memory. If the others in the chamber spoke true, Turel's firstborn had asked why they were making such an effort to stamp out all traces of the Thrones. After all, they were little more than an angry, well-dressed rabble. Lord Kain smashed him in the face with a painting of a field of staked vampires, all victims of the Sarafan.

Though he was irritated at the search, he understood the need for strangling the child in the cradle. It did not help matters that apparently the leader of the Thrones, some Lord Sandulf, claimed a leader of the Sarafan as an ancestor. Or a sorcerer—damned if he knew; the story changed every month or so. What made some vampires furious was Sandulf's supposed large army, which no one could actually _find _in its entirety.

Suddenly his horse balked and sidestepped. Nudging it back, Selik wondered what had startled the animal. Then he noticed that his companions' mounts stirred too, their eyes rolling like marbles.

Within moments it passed and the horses resumed their steady pace. Ryszard remained glaring at the distant trees as if they were about to uproot and come after him. Doubtless he had been a human army officer, even if he could not remember it. His wariness was infuriating at times.

"What's down there?"

Selik turned to see Trennen had pulled up, looking down. For a moment, he wondered what was so interesting about tall grass, until he realized that they had stopped at the edge of a cliff. Riding closer, he saw that the cliff led into a deep gully.

He felt foolish for not having seen it earlier, but when he looked at Ryszard the older vampire also looked interested. It was a fine place to provoke a charge. He could picture those stupid nobles charging their destriers, lances couched, only to crash into the ravine—

"I see a cave at the bottom," Trennen said.

"Glad your stupidity hasn't blinded you." Ryszard had nudged his horse as close to the edge as he could and scowled at the trench. "We'll have to look inside."

Before he could stop himself, the question flew from Selik's mouth. "Who will know?"

Ryszard's tone was ominous. "If not Zephon, then Lord Kain. Would you anger either?"

The raven flying through the sky received more than a perfunctory glance. A moment later, the vampire turned and cast Selik a wolfish grin.

"Go check the cave. Ask me why again and I'll break your jaw and throw you down there myself."

Unlike the boasts of many boisterous fledglings, Trennen included, Selik had no doubt Ryszard's threat was true. Many of those same fledglings, Trennen again included, discovered under Ryszard's training that quick healing was not such a blessing after all.

Selik dismounted and assessed the cliff. His elders could jump the whole way down with no issue but he would need to climb. It looked easy enough; better a slower climb than a broken ankle. He lowered himself to his knees and began to scale the side of the gully.

Soon he began to curse. His talons were designed for tearing; the sharp points could not directly pierce the deceptively smooth cliff face. A snarl of frustration tore from his mouth as he reached back and slashed his claws at the rock. It made a screech that set his fangs on edge, but it gave him a small handhold.

Continuing his descent, he wondered if his claws would be bloody stubs by the time he reached that damned cave. Besides that, he felt something unsure deep in his gut. He scowled. Perhaps the scouting had sharpened his nerves.

The Zephonim were naturally good climbers. Even now as precarious as descent was, he felt reasonably steady. He felt his frame against the rock, and instinctively knew when he needed to lean to the side or adjust his footing. It was still not easy climbing. If any of the humans had sought shelter in the cave, chances were they had broken every bone in their body. Likely not, as Ryszard knew the cave was empty. Making him bloody his hands now saved him the trouble of dismounting his horse to hit Selik for questioning orders.

His precarious concentration promptly shattered when Trennen barked in surprise and steel sang from a sheath.

He jerked and stiffened but pushed his weight too far back. Scrabbling for balance, his grip tore free and he crashed the rest of the way down. The vampire smashed against the ravine's rocky floor, driving his shoulder and hip hard into the gravelly surface.

Selik sprawled on the ground in a position most undignified for a fierce vampire warrior. He groaned and sat up, holding his left arm gingerly. Inspecting his throbbing hand, he saw that two of the nails had ripped free and a third had snapped in half. The blood trailing from the damaged fingers shone darkly in the moonlight. At least there was no water.

"What was that?" he called up.

Ryszard's gravelly voice answered back. "An idiot. Are you hurt?"

"Not too badly."

"Then get up and look at that cave," snapped the vampire.

Groaning, Selik eased himself to his feet. If he had fed recently, his injuries would have begun to mend. He hadn't fed in several days. The vampire made his way to the cave.

The cavern was naturally made. He walked through the triangular entrance and into the darker depths. Inside, the air clung to his skin while the darkness seemed an undulating presence. Even his acute vampire eyes could not make out everything in the cavern.

Still, it was just a cave. He smelled no trace of humans or blood, only earth and loam. He climbed—fell—all the way down here and there was nothing! Striking the wall in frustration, a hiss cut from his lips as his hand bled more freely. Then everything changed.

The emptiness of the cave disappeared. Selik whirled, his back to the wall and senses quivering. He felt no human or vampire, he was certain of that, but a nameless presence pervaded the darkness.

"_So long..." _

He flinched as the voice cut through the black abyss. Twisting to look around him, he could not find the direction it had come from. As if the darkness itself spoke.

"Who are you?"

The voice was smooth, lyrical if slightly sibilant as it replied. "Only a creature that has dwelled here for too long." The voice paused before continuing. "So long, I have almost forgotten your kind."

The voice was not so level anymore. A faint, hissing growl mingled with the smoothness. Now that he had heard it, Selik realized the timbre sounded silken, but far from mellifluous. A feeling stirred low in his gut as the voice picked up fervor again.

"I see that you retain your wretchedness. Filthy…bastard…_murderers_." The voice twisted into a furious rasp and rebounded across the walls.

The serpentine tenor wracked over him in fury. Selik jerked his sword from its sheath. Instantly he felt the enraged presence recede, and the smoothness returned.

"Calm, sirrah. I see now. Your scent is different. Twisted, more like…_me_."

Selik glared at the darkness but remained silent. Books told of demons and ghosts, but nothing seemed like this thing.

A bitter laugh. "No, it does nothing to hate me. I am almost too insubstantial to detest. Not like I _was_, vampire."

The vampire shifted uneasily. At last, he believed the sound was coming from the far end of the cave. He felt no compulsion to venture closer. Not without Ryszard.

"You still have not answered me. What is your name?"

"I hardly remember," the voice replied. "A name is only remembered when it is spoken. All who spoke my name are gone from this place."

He could hear little anger anymore in its voice, only melancholy.

"If all of your kind are gone, why do you remain?" he ventured.

"I have no desire to _stay_, not alone. But I made a promise."

There was such glumness in the tone that Selik found himself curious, and almost concerned. _What is wrong with me?_ He sheathed his sword, the movement occurring before the thought crossed his mind. He began to back up. Instantly the darkness shifted, like a snake rearing to attention.

He tried to distract it. "What drives you to stay?"

The same bitter laugh wafted through the cave and he found his question ignored.

"It has been so long since anyone has seen me. You cannot know how it is, to live through the epochs in a single place, to be in the one unchanging thing as the centuries tarry on. Lucky, _free_,_ blood drinker_." For an instant the guttural hiss returned, only to be quickly quelled. "Tell me, would you like to see me? No one has seen my kind in centuries."

Selik peered into the unnatural darkness. The air smelled differently now—charged, weakly so, but stirring with energy. And it seemed that in the black depths, something even darker stirred.

Zephon would want to know about this. An ancient creature unseen for ages…He quelled his curiosity. Almost to the mouth of the cave, some of his uncertainty had eased.

Half for bravery, half for curiosity, his tongue betrayed him. "Come with me if you like, stranger."

A scabrous laugh ricocheted off the cavern walls, cold and vicious. Triumph shattered the melancholy as the stagnant energy roared into fervor. Selik drew his sword once again, trying to track the sound but finding it buffeting his senses from all angles. And suddenly, something clamped onto him.

The vampire leapt back, only to collide with a wall of the cave. The thing that had taken hold of him did not touch his skin, but he felt the pressure deeper, as if his thoughts themselves were being seized.

"_Let go of me!_" he roared, clawing at his own head with his free hand until blood trailed in rivulets down his face. Or thought he roared—his jaw felt locked, his whole body rigid.

He twisted and fell, only to smash again into the stony wall. The force of the impact knocked the sword from his other hand. He struggled blindly, as something he could never remember feeling quaked in his chest. _Fear_. His body remembered it of course, from time before it changed and the mind forgot. He scrabbled at the ground for balance, slashing blindly with his free hand.

Finally, a victorious rasp pervaded the cave, but this time, the words hissed from his own mouth. "You _asked_ to see me, filthy wretch."

"_Leave me!"_

The force slammed into him again, and in one final second, he knew he was lost.

"You asked why I stay, sirrah," the voice snarled in hideous ecstasy. "_Vengeance_."


	2. The Castle

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 2: **The Castle

* * *

Trennen stirred at the sound of crunching stone. _Selik should be on his way up…likely furious to have found only a bat cave_. But the sound seemed uneven, as if the vampire was having difficulty climbing. He looked at Ryszard. The vampire met his gaze with a mocking smile.

"Your jolt made him fall."

_And your damn posturing sent him down there in the first place._ He bristled in silence. Trennen could never think of why Lord Zephon had let the brute rise in rank. His sire valued an acute mind over raw strength. Ryszard was little more than a battle-scarred mongrel, obedient to a single master but only when its chain was taut. To everyone else he was a browbeater. _And for that reason, fool, I practice my archery. _

Whatever his smoldering thoughts, they ceased when a shadowed form crawled over the ledge. Normally he would have been overjoyed to no longer be stuck alone with Ryszard. This was not a normal time.

Selik's back hunched like a gargoyle, while his legs tottered as if he could barely keep his balance.

"Ah, this world is still here," he growled. "Destroyed…hideous."

Without intending to, Trennen nudged his horse backwards. The timbre of that voice might have been the same, but the cadence and pity were staccato and rasping.

"Selik?" He cursed the uncertainty in his own voice.

The vampire jerked his head and looked at him through hair made stringy with dried blood. Gashes lined his cheeks like tears or warpaint. Wounds like claw marks.

"You parasitic wretches live on, I see. _Wretches wretches wretches!_" the maddened vampire howled, his fury at odds with his rictus grin.

"Enough!"

Ryszard spurred his mount forward and drove a fist into Selik's smiling visage. The vampire stopped smiling; the blow knocked him to the ground. The older vampire regarded the fallen form. For the first time he could remember, Trennen believed he was concerned. _And when Zephon flays you alive for this, I will most joyously play the fiddle to your screams._

Trennen dismounted and approached the figure, nerves on the brink of reeling back. When he neared, Selik lifted his head.

"Trennen?" the whisper almost sounded hopeful, and once more like the fledgling.

_Gods, what happened to him?_ The vampire sat up and Trennen saw that his eyes were wide and he trembled in his leather armor.

"Help me, _please_, Trennen…"

He wondered if he had ever heard the vampire use the word before. It was such an uncommonly used word, only resorted to in times of desperation, such as begging for mercy. Perhaps that was what he was asking for.

The vampire was groping at the air as if blind. Against his better judgment, Trennen kneeled in front of him and reached to reassure him, to do _something_ to ease his mind. The instant his skin touched, a hissing snarl came from the vampire and his eyes flashed green.

Trennen leapt to his feet at the same time as Selik, but he was quickly realizing this creature was _not_ Selik. _Possession? Impossible—ghosts and demons cannot possess _us_._ At least, not that he had heard.

The green-eyed vampire careened as he stood. Blood trailed from his torn lip. Licking it away with his tongue, he shuddered and hissed again.

"_Why?_" he rasped.

He raised his bleeding hand to his mouth and sucked at the blood. Immediately the creature spat it out. When he spoke, his voice shook in disgust.

"Why do I have a taste for it, like you pathetic leeches? This revolting desire! _Wretches!_"

Selik was not tall or heavy-muscled, but as he began to stalk forward, the fury in his flaming green eyes belied any physical slight. On instinct, Trennen reached for his bow and arrows. He never had time to aim one, for Ryszard unsheathed his broadsword and smashed it across the back of Selik's skull.

The vampire went down, unconscious and bleeding. Even in sleep he was not quiet, as soon he whimpered and writhed. Ryszard swung from his courser's back and approached him.

"Gods."

"You made him go down there." The words flew from his traitorous tongue before he could stop them.

Wordlessly, Ryszard broke his nose. "The ranging ends now. We're going back to Zephon."

Trennen pressed a hand to his bleeding face, shaking in anger but not wanting to lose even more blood. And, as he admitted, Selik needed help. Lord Zephon would know what to do, he had to. He was Lord Zephon, the victor of so many battles through his cunning and sword. _But will anything in the world help this one?_

Ryszard picked up his writhing form. With what could almost be considered gentle for the vampire, he placed him on the back of Selik's mount. The horse snorted and sidestepped but quieted at a small slap to its chest. He managed to secure him in a sitting position. Of course, Selik's hands were tightly bound. Ryszard mounted his own courser, his eyes stormy. _Likely thinking of how you'll explain this to Lord Zephon. "Oh, he just happened to start raving. Must've been the heat."_ Trennen followed suit and together they were off.

If the journey hereto had been taciturn, the ride back was funereal. Ryszard remained silent and brooding and Trennen felt no need to challenge him. He would one day, he was sure, once he was stronger. In the meantime, he kept a hand over his nose as it healed. He had no desire for a crooked nose. Contrary to wives' tales, he could see himself just fine in a mirror, and liked what he saw.

A few hours later Selik began to stir, though when Trennen looked at him he saw no recognition. Whatever had taken hold of the vampire seemed to have loosened its chains, for his eyes were again their golden color.

That did not give call for peace though. Selik no longer raved like a madman but took to mumbling incoherently. Off and on he muttered throughout the night and day.

Three nights later, Trennen swayed in his saddle. Thirst parched his mouth and hunger bit at his throat. The nighttime air was warm for this time of year. He felt it lulling him—the only sleep he had gotten was quick rests during the brightest part of the day. The sun was worst for the young. He was not so old, only thirty.

Ryszard rode up ahead and could not see him. Even then, the way the vampire acted now, Trennen wondered if he would care. He also wondered if anything more went on in the vampire's head than battle and blood.

His horse followed Ryszard's. He felt his eyes begin to close. But a low sound came to his ears. Trennen barely listened to it, until the subtle murmur was all he heard.

"_Die Zeit ist fast hier. Bald, bald. Die Wölfe sterben und die Löwen haben ihre Rache. Vielleicht leben die anderen noch_."

He twisted away from sleep. The tongue was Old Nosgothic. Trennen had barely heard it before, and seen it scarcely more in books. No one had spoken it as a common language in over half a thousand years, only to grant as names. It was something about time and wolves—he could not understand it.

Glancing over, he realized Selik was staring at him. Trennen grimaced. The other vampire's eyes glittered green.

"_Wretch_," it growled.

"Go to sleep, Wretch," Trennen replied, and sat up straighter in his saddle.

He had the distinct feeling that the creature was laughing at him. But he heard no more from Selik.

The next night they reached Ragnarok, Lord Zephon's main stronghold. A wall surrounded the city and the gates were thick wood and iron. It was a fortress—the buildings lacked the more delicate architecture found farther east, and the wide streets were intended for marching soldiers rather than commerce.

Ryszard reined up in front of the closed gate and bellowed up to the parapets for entry.

Trennen rolled his eyes. _So undignified, you oafish lout. Go on, ride to your lord and beg for mercy._ The brutish vampire had a fondness for the word "whelp." He was not even that much of a senior among the vampire ranks.

Nevertheless, the gates quickly opened and they trotted through. The city of Ragnarok was a cold one and not tempered at all by its inhabitants. It was also one of the most secure cities Trennen had ever entered. They had hardly damaged the walls during the siege.

Their horses' hooves rang over the stone pathways, heralding their arrival. They were not conquering war heroes—the scattered guards and weary training party hardly paused. Few seemed to be anywhere, really.

Trennen had always thought it strange that they still used lanterns in the streets. With eyes enhanced by vampirism, extra light was unnecessary. _Still_, _some formalities must be observed._

They passed a second wall and crossed a drawbridge over a drained moat. At last they arrived in front of the castle entrance itself, the castle forming a three-sided square. The keep was the only part of the city that could be considered beautiful. The noble who inhabited the city prior to Lord Zephon apparently wanted more picturesque surroundings. As a result, the castle resembled a slab of marble amongst flagstone. The sloping architecture was boldly elegant, and tempered by pale stone and gardens. Inside, it could just as easily host a ball as house a small army.

In front of the castle doors stood Ghislain and Isana, presumably for a report. Though no vampire other than Kain remembered his human life, it was obvious the two vampires were related. They were almost exact twins, with Ghislain's shoulders broad and Isana's delicate. Both had cheekbones cut from ice and eyes like lurking falcons. Stories of their unplatonic liaisons had gone on for years, with little care except to dredge up old jokes and gossip.

For some reason, Lord Zephon favored them over many of his oldest. To heed the telltales, Lord Zephon took many lovers but Isana always returned to his bed. Sometimes with Ghislain. He knew some despised them, while others clamored for their approval.

Ryszard halted his courser at the bottom of the stairs.

"We need Lord Zephon," he stated.

Both vampires raised an aquiline eyebrow. Ryszard was notorious for refusing to show most signs of respect. _Arrogant bastard._

"Never one to stand on formalities?" Ghislain asked, his face softening in a grin.

Trennen stared at his reins to keep from rolling his eyes.

Ghislain's smile fled when Selik began to hiss, muttering incoherently and biting at the leather binding around his wrists. _And I do believe I've now seen a horse that wants to cry._

"As I said," Ryszard growled, "we need Lord Zephon."

Ghislain returned to the castle without another word while Isana remained, with a look that almost resembled surprise. It was hard to tell with her. A pigeon-toed slave crept up to take their horses, prompting him and Ryszard to dismount. The slave did not attempt to get close to Selik's horse, something Trennen did not blame him for.

Lord Zephon himself appeared in the doorway, a dark green cloak fluttering behind him and Ghislain at his side. His stride was unhurried and his expression wavered between anger and disquiet. When he saw Selik, he looked intrigued.

_Let it never be said Lord Zephon cares not for his legion_.

In an instant Zephon was beside the vampire, holding the horse in place and inspecting the vampire.

"What happened?" he asked coolly.

It seemed Ryszard had a trace of humility as he gravely recounted the past five days. "I believe he's possessed," he finished.

"He responds to Wretch," Trennen added.

Lord Zephon's blank look and Ryszard's warning glare were enough to make him regret opening his mouth. His sire returned his attention to the possessed vampire, who stared at him with a cockeyed gaze.

"Selik?"

The green flames rushed into the vampire's eyes and he thrashed against the bindings. "_Wretch_!" he spat, fury rolling off him in heated waves.

Beneath him, the gray horse began to twist and snort in fear.

"Get him down but keep his hands tied." Zephon stepped back and immediately Ghislain and Isana swept forward to unstrap him from the horse.

Selik's head lolled as Ghislain dragged him from the courser. Trennen assumed he could see. From the words that soon came from the creature's mouth, he had spotted Isana.

"Pretty wench," he crooned. "You might have use after all."

If Lord Zephon had not been standing there, Trennen believed Ghislain would have snapped his neck. Isana's lip curled but she was not one for voicing her fury. Ghislain held him in place by his throat, blood appearing where his claws met skin.

"Isana, find that priest from Provance," Zephon said. He smiled mirthlessly at Ryszard. "Your assessment is likely correct. It is time for an old-fashioned exorcism."

The vampire nodded but his cheerless expression never lessened.

"Has he fed recently?" Zephon asked.

"None of us have," Ryszard replied.

"Good then, he'll be too weak to withstand much." He offered the smallest of grins, seeming almost…_uncertain? Of course not._ "Go feed. You two have earned a rest."

But Ryszard remained. _Insolent fool!_ _How in the nine hells have you gained any sort of status? Tramping, complaining, and ordering anyone but Lord Zephon around like chess pieces?_

"Lord Zephon," Ryszard began. "We will stay. Selik was my charge, and I made him go down there."

Trennen almost gagged. It only stung worse when Lord Zephon regarded the muscled fighter with a paternal smile.

"You were following my orders. Rest assured, I do not blame you."

Zephon studied the possessed vampire. Selik was hunched over in a crouch like a feral animal. His jaw hung loose, almost dislocated. Gurgling, labored sounds were coming from his mouth; it took Trennen a moment to realize the creature was laughing.

"You so righteously forgive the one who has started your downfall, who has murdered your loyal subject, and who has given me the means to make my retur-_agh_!"

He snarled in pain as Ghislain clamped his talons further into his neck, driving the vampire to his knees.

"Quiet, Wretch."

Trennen was not too proud to admit a swath of pride at Lord Zephon using his name for whatever had taken over Selik.

The leader of the Zephonim turned as Isana glided in front of a scrawny human. Trennen guessed it was the mage-priest.

Few vampires had any of the magic they might have had as humans. The ability might remain, but the memory of how to use it—or even be aware of it—was gone with the chains of mortality. That was what humans were for. Not every slave was driven to an early grave. The priest was well dressed and fed. Deferent, but not broken.

Trennen watched the mage carefully as he approached. The slender man walked like one who knew his place, eyes down but head high. His neck was scarred though a few lines of blue remained. The man had cut away a tattoo, likely the symbol of his order. _Whatever your talents, faith was the first thing to go. _Inked on his wrist was Zephon's green sigil, a reminder that he would find no more succor from humans.

Selik was staring at him again with those demonic eyes. He turned his attention back to Lord Zephon, who was murmuring with the priest. The robed man nodded in obedient understanding.

"Ghislain, stand back," Zephon said. "Ryszard, strike him with your sword but only enough to stun."

Ghislain let go and took his place beside his sister, an arm curling around hers as if he would need to yank her behind him. Ever the valiant, _dutiful _soldier, Ryszard unsheathed his broadsword and stepped forward. Selik wheeled, unsteady on his feet, and only managed a furious cry as the steel took him across the chest.

The vampire sprawled onto his back and the verdant flames died in his eyes. He looked rather like a cockroach. Trennen watched warily. Selik had to come back. Some twisted ghost could not be a match for a _vampire_.

Sniffing at a crackle in the air, Trennen watched as the priest stood with his eyes closed. Noticing Ryszard glaring warily at the exorcist almost made him want to learn magic himself. Finally, the mage raised his hands level with his chest and began to murmur in a wispy language Trennen did not understand.

There were no lights or other fancies. Indeed, the only magic light he had ever seen was a fireball hurled by a _very_ ornery pyromancer. But he heard the hum, almost a song in Trennen's sensitive ears.

Selik lunged to his feet, hissing and twisting as if the song burned him. The green flames returned to his eyes. He snarled from deep within.

The mage faltered, stumbling once, blue eyes widening in surprise. But he was stronger than he looked, and moved back into place. Selik's snarls became pained, as if he had a wound that was being lanced.

Trennen felt his breath quickening as the weaponless battle dragged on. Whatever had taken hold of the fledgling was not letting go. Selik continued to writhe and growl but the hellish green light never dimmed.

The hum screeched in his ears, stung in his jaw. Selik raised a shaking arm—

With a shriek, the priest flew back. Ghislain sidestepped to catch him, only for them both to smash into the ground. Shock painted Ghislain's face, but he rolled to his feet in a moment. As for the slave, blood ran from his mouth and his eyes stared at nothing while his chest quivered in ragged gasps. All while Selik laughed.

"Ryszard—" Lord Zephon's voice was oddly rushed.

The vampire struck out with his broadsword, this time with enough force that everyone heard the crack against Selik's skull. For the second time, he went down.

Zephon looked at the fallen priest and scowled. Trennen knew the mage had been useful in a battle a few months ago. Who knew what plans his sire had for him? All gone now, judging from the way the slave kecked and moaned.

"Isana, get him out of here." His expression grew morose but resolute. "Whatever has Selik is strong and old." He obviously held no happiness at the prospect. "We're going to the Emperor."


	3. The Throne Room

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 3: **The Throne Room

* * *

By the time they were a day's ride from the Sanctuary, Trennen was sick of his horse. Their party left the night after Ryszard had led them wearily into Ragnarok. Of course, the vampiric body recovered much faster than a human one, provided the vampire had enough blood. Some gifts carried their tolls.

Lord Zephon left Ghislain and Isana as his stewards. They had shown competence in such things often enough. _And likely Isana begged so prettily._ She was a strange one—cringing whenever she had to touch a sword, burying herself in accounts and ledgers.

Trennen knew now why few Zephonim had been out in the streets. On Kain's orders, Lord Zephon had diverted more forces to the Atziluth River, where Raziel and Rahab also had soldiers encamped.

According to Ghislain, the humans were resisting more than they had in years, all rallying behind the Blue Thrones. Trennen scoffed; there was always a rebel group devising some doomed plan. The Blue Thrones had some tie to an ancient alliance, long forgotten until desperation drove them together. _A scuffed, humbled group throwing everything they have at one last fight. And their leader Lord Sandulf has an unnatural fondness for his dogs. _

But names held power. It was always a twinge of bother that he could never remember his own. Lord Zephon called him Trennen, and so he knew himself as that. Not all vampires needed a new name. Names could be found on weapons, armor, paper, or tombstones. Then there were the luckier ones; ones who somehow, despite death and time, could recall their own names from tattered memory.

Lord Zephon rode ahead on Gevurah. Each of the vampire lieutenants possessed a steed that carried him through battle and served faithfully forever. The lieutenants' horses _would_ serve forever—they were as undead as their riders. In life the steeds were destriers of the highest quality and now with vampirism they surpassed any other mount. Only the lieutenants had them. Trennen's own courser was stubbornly mortal.

Closest to Ryszard, Selik slumped in the saddle, hands tied behind his back. The possessed vampire had been quiet throughout their journey, though Trennen had doubts the creature was deep in thought.

The next evening, they rode through the gates of the Sanctuary.

Lord Zephon's small company trotted up the wide path, the hooves of the horses clattering over the stone. The Sanctuary stood before them, tall and daunting. The pale stone forming the citadel carried a red tinge in places. Trennen remembered hearing that any slaves who had the audacity to die whilst working were added to the mortar. _The religious sects claim to be founded on the blood of martyrs. Our empire is founded on the blood of slaves and traitors. _The thought made him chuckle.

Trennen had seen the Sanctuary of the Clans thrice before but the place still made him feel miniscule. Outside the citadel itself, the Sanctuary was a placid situation of gardens and training fields, where rivalries and alliances formed and shattered. A mockery of any human court. The entire area was surrounded by a stone wall that served more as intimidation than defense.

Once they reached the opened gates to the structure, several slaves appeared to take the horses. Trennen dismounted and handed the reins over to a man whose hands were strangers to a bathtub.

As in Ragnarok, the servants balked at the possessed vampire. Even when he was not hissing and snarling, anyone could tell something was wrong with him. Life as a servant meant dancing and bowing between infinite pairs of fangs. Few desired to take more risk than that.

Lord Zephon broke the teetering silence. "Leave him, he will stay on the horse. Where is the Emperor?"

The slave stared at the ground as was expected and quickly answered, "In the throne room, my lord. The Emperor awaits you."

Of course Lord Kain would know they had arrived, despite no formal announcement. Nevertheless, the emperor awaiting someone was never a calming thing.

"Very well," Lord Zephon replied. "You can lead the mounted one."

He could smell the slave's sweaty fear but with a moderately steady hand, he took the reins just below the rangy horse's muzzle.

If there was any anxiousness in Lord Zephon about the interview, the vampire hid it well.

"Let us make way."

He set off through the behemothic doors while Trennen and Ryszard fell in behind him, the slave bringing up the rear. Selik looked like a dead thing atop the horse, except for the rattling breath deep in his throat.

The Sanctuary of the Clans was square in layout, though it contained more rooms than most knew. The throne room was in the center.

Buffeting his ears, hoofbeats rang over polished stone. Horses rarely entered the citadel but it was not unheard of. _Did not Dumah's secondborn Drache and Ghislain have a horserace down the southern hall?_ The main halls were wide enough for five destriers to ride abreast.

They crossed the short, candle-lined bridge that connected the throne room's main entrance to the rest of the Sanctuary. Lord Kain had once remarked that any who fell in the water on either side of the bridge were unworthy of seeing the throne room.

Like any vampire, Trennen kept a wary glance on the glittering pool. Doubtlessly it set many off balance, an effect that was probably intentional.

At the far side of the throne room, the Emperor of Nosgoth lounged like a necromancer king in front of the broken Pillars, his bone-pale skin stark against the Pillars' corrupted stone. Trennen knew it was a deceptive position. The vampire's predatory eyes were piercing from across the room. It took a moment to realize another figure standing beside him.

His sire's quick breath stifled a hiss. It was Raziel.

_As Kain's firstborn undoubtedly he stays here more, but with crazed nobles running around with gods-knew how many soldiers, why in hell is he not with his clan?_ Lord Zephon continued to walk, but his stride had a wary hesitancy while his eyes never left the dais. Once the vampire lord was several yards from the pillars, he knelt on the stone floor in fealty.

"Why have you come?" Lord Kain's gaze was fixed on Selik. The question was a formality—that much was obvious.

Lord Zephon briefly explained, keeping his voice measured. When he finished, Kain made no reply. Instead, he stared past the Lieutenant, his aberrant gaze on Selik. The feral voice snarled across the throne room.

"_Ekelhafter Schädling! __Ekelhafter Dämon! Das Schicksal ist nahe!_"

The Emperor remained funereally still. Then Trennen noticed the vampire's claws digging into the stony arms of the throne. The air seemed to chill.

Selik's breathy growl rattled through the room. "Wretch!"

Lord Kain rose and walked forward in a single motion. Trennen watched fixedly as the emperor moved with that catlike smoothness that all vampires possessed, but never with the complete alien quality of Kain himself. In seemingly an instant he stood beside Selik's mount. The horse snorted but even it knew not to cross the Emperor.

The cords in his sire's pale throat were taut and strained. Lord Zephon appeared to fight the burn in his predatory blood that coerced him to lunge to the side of his fledgling.

But Lord Kain never cared. _His empire lives in proud terror of him, why would he care? _

_If they came together against him, would they even rebel?_ The thought flashed across Trennen's mind before he could check it. _Of course not_, the answer hissed cynically back at him. Humans rebelled, not vampires. They were too much moronic chattel to know how easily a king would slay his own. It was hypocrisy to a vampire's nature, but held unadulterated through the centuries. There had always been intrigue, yes, but never a full rebellion.

Trennen caught himself. Why was he thinking such? The emperor was merciless but had he not won? The days of slaughter by the Sarafan were only found in books. The vampiric emperor had achieved all the things he stated he would do, excepting Nosgoth's complete takeover. The lieutenants were now like six serrated talons, while Lord Kain was the hand that used them to tear all enemies asunder.

Reaching the horse, Lord Kain reached up to take the possessed vampire. At a grating hiss from Wretch, the Emperor struck him across the face, the crack audible throughout the throne room. He jerked the vampire to the ground and seized his neck in a talon-sharp vice.

"Perhaps he can be helped," he said, quiet and cold. "I will take him below. Raziel, come."

With no other explanation, the vampire turned and walked towards a door near the throne, dragging the possessed vampire behind him. Immediately Zephon was in pursuit.

"You will remain here, Zephon."

Trennen felt more than saw his lord bristling. It only cut worse that Kain's firstborn would be attending him.

Selik made no move to talk or fight as he skidded towards the door. But he still had eyes. The green fire no longer raged but glimmered mutedly. Selik's eyes bore into him, the fire in them cruel and cunning and just possibly knowing.

_Gods, why is the room so cold?_ Surely the heat in Selik's eyes would burn rather than freeze, but Trennen flinched as the cold seemed to twist in his guts and slide under his cloak. The cold only seemed to lose its bite when Raziel stepped behind the emperor, though not disappearing all together. Trennen wondered if it was an omen, though he rarely put stock in such things. Charily he straightened, unable to keep track of how much time passed.

"Trennen."

Zephon's soft voice pulled him from his idiotic thoughts. Turning, he faced his sire. The anger he thought to see had disappeared into the white flesh of his face. Instead, he looked weary.

"Yes sire?"

"Put your ear to the door."

_Eavesdropping!_ Would he sink so low? Trennen felt a short rush of indignant anger and for a moment he forgot about demons and cold snaps. At his sire's cool gaze though, he realized it was a necessity. Obviously Lord Zephon had more planned than merely dropping eaves, and of course a vampire lieutenant could not be seen listening insidiously like a common spy.

So it fell to him, naturally, to aid his sire. Walking forward, he distinctly heard the raspy chuckle of Ryszard. Zephon made no move to check him. Trennen seethed. The brute did whatever he saw fit, and with his sire's blessing too.

_I _will _kill him one day, when I am stronger. No—he will suffer first, until death is a sweet end compared to the agony he'll know._ _Starting with his eyes._ Trennen let the thought block out the barbarian's raucous laughter as he fulfilled his master's wish.

He pressed his ear against the thick stone, struggling to hear the slightest noise. The room that Selik was dragged to must have been much farther down, for he heard nothing. The wait shuffled on until the silence was the noisiest being in the room.

A single, long scream rose from below, the sound ragged with pain. Trennen heard the singsong screech of Ryszard's sword sliding from its sheath. The vampire had scarcely retreated several steps from the door when it opened and the Emperor appeared. Raziel followed.

Lord Kain might as well have gone for a walk for all the change in his expression or bearing. As for Raziel, he maintained cool indifference so befitting an emperor's dogged favorite. Unlike the emperor, he was not so skilled at it. Perhaps he had tried to wipe it off, but Trennen easily smelled the blood that caked around the seams of his leather bracers, an unmistakable hint as to what horrors had gone on below.

"_What is the meaning of this?"_

Lord Zephon wheeled as the Emperor passed, deference long out of fashion.

"He was a traitor to the empire," Kain replied, not pausing to regard the furious Lieutenant.

"Because a demon was twisting him like a marionette!"

_Please don't get us all killed my lord._ This time Kain deigned to glance at the vampire. The Sarafan had more tea parties than the total times the Emperor had ever smiled, but a light glittered in his eyes that bordered on farcical amusement.

"Now you have fallen on excuses?"

With that, he left the throne room. To Raziel's misfortune, he was not as quick to reach the egress.


	4. The Route

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 4: **The Route

* * *

Ryszard and Trennen knew when to keep back and stay quiet. Zephon stepped beside Raziel before the vampire could think about leaving the room. Raziel was nonplussed. Despite his vast and sweeping arrogance that even Dumah had problems keeping up with, he did not look like he had any desire to deride.

Raziel was considered handsome by most, though his physical description as a beautiful angel-child with a face delicately cut from ice was moronically embellished. The account had, after all, come from some sycophant human writer who had authored a book on the glories of the dark empire. In the text, Raziel was chiseled from rock and could talk the gods into granting him wings if he so wished it. It was no surprise that the author's fellow humans dismembered him.

The firstborn was more heavily jawed than the book cared to recollect. His skin was pale, but Zephon saw no evidence of Kain using ice to create his face. But Zephon cared little for any of it at the moment, only answers, and a way to vent his rage without risking a broken bone.

Raziel broke the silence. "I did not know what he was planning."

"Yet you followed doggedly once it was made clear," Zephon countered.

Raziel's eyes were incredulous. "He is the Emperor of Nosgoth. Why would I defy my sire over some fledgling?"

Fury battered against the walls of his mind, yearning for an escape. Decades ago, there would have been an explosion and it would have certainly ended in blood. But not now. Decades ago he had learned that the fifth born in Kain's brood could not afford such a spectacle.

Zephon spent the next several seconds willing any strong expression to disappear, to fall below the visible surface and wait for a time when it could rage unchecked.

"The emperor seems disinclined to tell me any of his intentions until one of my sons lies dead."

"I told you, he said nothing."

"Stop this," Zephon hissed. "You and I know he has shared next to nothing—about anything—with me in decades. I am sending my legion to Stierstadt to deprive humanity of its cattle under our sire's orders. What an asset to the empire; the human resistances are forced to become plant-eaters."

At this, Raziel darkened. "Your failure confronting Baldur left the emperor with a rather dismal impression."

Zephon felt close to snapping. _Baldur, it all comes back to Baldur._ That damned human. When he next spoke, he forced his tone to its iciest—anything to conceal the flames.

"My memory wanes; I must be getting old. Overtaking the keep of rebel warlords is always grounds for ostracizing."

Raziel smirked. "You failed as far as anyone is concerned. You lost to Baldur." His glittering yellow eyes held less than their usual derision. The firstborn was agitated. "None of the lieutenants has ever lost." His fangs glinted under his dark lips. "You showed them we were less than gods."

Despite his rage Zephon almost laughed. "I am sorry, brother, sorry that I halted your ascension."

"No, our domination."

It was Zephon's time to smirk. Someone was getting impatient. Despite all his many talents, the firstborn was never a talented liar. Or perhaps his own ability of perception was just greater. Lies were only threads that obscured fact. The better the liar, the better woven the thread. But it was only ever a matter of seeing past the tapestry.

He knew the source of the vampire's remark. But if Raziel imagined anything other than what was so, he was sadly mistaken.

"Human battles will always exist. Their will to survive and fight mirrors our own." Zephon's feral smile widened. "We get it _from _them, intensified like all the rest of our desires. _Die unstillbare Gier_."

_Insatiable greed_, such was their way.

As Raziel was prone to do, the anger left his eyes, easing back into exasperated irritation. "Your pontificating is tiresome."

"Merely observation. When the humans were attacking Glückdorf, was not one of your favorites killed?"

"Several." A predatory suspicion hardened Raziel's face. "You know well the greatest casualties were Amsel and Rabe."

Zephon lightened his own expression. It was dangerous to run against Raziel. The firstborn was a better fighter. Stronger, hardier, but perhaps not smarter. He was also more quick to attack. Zephon was grateful for Ryszard and Trennen at his side, particularly Ryszard. He made no false hope that the warrior could defeat Raziel in combat but he was a comfort nonetheless.

Instead of playing the aggressor, Zephon kept his tone neutral.

"Yes, but I seem to recall something more, something you made them pay quite dearly for." A small dash of flattery never hurt. "Rabe was tortured to death, wasn't she? Torture comes from two desires—information and sadism, this I know from personal experience. Doubtless in her case it was a mixture of both."

He looked up, having previously held his gaze near the floor. Raziel's stance had stiffened. Zephon knew it would take little more to spark an attack. He could do without that.

"The thought of Kain murdering my poor Selik merely to sate a bloodlust is ridiculous. He wanted to know something. What did he say?"

According to stories, the emperor would have taken ten healthy soldiers and slaughtered them all if he so much as suffered a headache. Nosgothic authors were better suited to writing angst-ridden poetry than accurate history.

So few saw it. The emperor was thought of as a bad tempered warlord who exploded at the slightest disturbance. So few ever looked close enough. Kain was _cold_— cold, cunning, and all too good at playing his part as a savage emperor. He planned more than Zephon cared to know, though he was certain that each rage, each assault, was calculated into whatever his ultimate goal was. If Kain ever did genuinely erupt, the result would surely be far more catastrophic than a few dead vampires.

When Raziel answered, he was sharp and careless. It was a natural response to the subject of his beloved's gory death, a way to put distance between it and himself.

"I don't know. He snarled things in Old Nosgothic. Towards the end, that odd light faded from his eyes and he said nothing. Until Kain killed him."

_He could not let him die without a kiss from the Reaver_, Zephon thought acidly. He also wondered at the sudden silence on the part of whatever possessed his warrior. But a more pressing thing was now his concern—Raziel. Because they were in the Sanctuary there was less a chance that the firstborn would attack him. For Raziel though, less of a chance was not a gamble to toy with. Zephon had measured his remarks purposely to refrain from open insolence. If anything raised the vampire's hackles, it was insolence. If anyone could drive him into a fury, it was Zephon.

Zephon could play the part of the submissive younger sibling when it suited him. Raziel would never have completely bought it, for that was all it was; a gauzy front that any could see through. That way, if he truly had the need to pull a performance, it would be all the more convincing than the cacophonous charades the empire was content to play.

But Raziel appeared to play the gentleman today.

"Brother, would you care to stop by my newest holding before you depart? Perhaps you can see a weakness in the defenses." He sounded almost kind. No, not kind…older, and dealing with a spoiled child. Of course he knew it. "It cannot be the only keep to the same design."

Raziel spoke with too much credit; Zephon knew damn well that the keep had not yet fallen. Chances were if he went there, he would get pulled into a frivolous battle or have his advice completely disregarded.

To hell with it. Zephon was too angry to think about helping anyone other than his own legion. If Raziel became mired in anything too serious the other lieutenants would aid him. Of course, Raziel tended to find ways out of things all by himself.

But the puzzle intrigued him. Kain had been ready to kill Selik right then in the throne room when whatever possessed him had hissed its words. The pieces were shifting and realigning. The answer…_it is what provoked the action, not the action itself_.

He needed to return to Ragnarok. He had transported his books there to augment the existing library. He needed to find something about this body-stealing creature.

"I have my own clan to see to, brother. That is all."

It was not all, far from it. He turned and walked toward the large door, then remembered. The slave still stood farther in the room, clutching the reins of the horse and silent all the while. Purpose used and thus discarded.

"Take the horse to the stables and tell them to get ours ready."

The slave nodded silently and led the animal out a different side door. Zephon turned once more back to his own exit. It was time to leave these bloodied halls. The room seemed to echo the sound of his boots unusually loud, as if Pillars themselves paused in remote breathlessness.

There was only a dark blur that appeared in the corner of his eye. Perhaps he should have taken notice sooner, for an instant later Raziel's claws were tearing into his throat.

It was not enough to seriously wound him. It was his pride that raged strongest of all as Raziel clamped a taloned hand down onto the base of his neck.

_Bastard._ He had overplayed his hand. It was not a new game for Raziel to play the courtier until the time to strike suited him, but for this? Raziel's brazenness rebelled against it. To smile and nod while unsheathing a dagger was…_something you would do_.

In a second Ryszard was unsheathing his broadsword while Trennen readied his bow.

"Stay. This is a matter between brothers." Raziel's voice was a cool breath across his neck.

His vampires would never have paid him heed. Instead it was Zephon who stopped the inevitable battle.

"Stand down. I shall not disrupt this neutral ground further." Zephon thought his voice was remarkably authoritative for someone who had a set of claws sunk an inch into his flesh. Neither vampires sheathed their weapons but neither did they attack.

If Turel were here, he would have no problem starting a brawl, knowing whose side the secondborn would take. Alas, his brother was off on more important matters.

In smooth movement Raziel twisted him around to face him, bringing him scant inches from his smirking visage. Zephon did not try to wrench away, though fury pounded like a war drum within him. If he fought he would surely bleed. Raziel would pay for the insult someday but now Zephon sought something of higher importance. His pride could withstand the buffeting until it was time to seek his recompense.

Raziel continued to smirk and leaned his forward until his lips scarcely grazed his forehead. Whatever he wore was newly made for he smelled of new leather. When Raziel spoke, his low voice was frozen venom.

"I would not be so impetuous, brother." He did kiss him then, his lips cold against Zephon's forehead, a mocking kiss to a petulant child. "An invitation stays open for only so long."

"I will refuse it," Zephon replied.

"On your clan be it."

Zephon felt the firstborn's grip loosening on his neck. He suddenly whirled around, breaking the grasp entirely. Raziel made no move to grab him again; he had been about to release him anyway. The fifthborn stood free and furious, blood dripping down his neck and onto his cloak. Ryszard and Trennen quickly moved to flank him.

"Let's go," he murmured.

Trennen slung his bow back over his shoulder, obviously distraught. Ryszard looked calm and ready to kill something. Zephon said nothing else.

Gevurah trotted tirelessly on, the night air invigorating the horse if not his master. Zephon had only the thought of returning to Ragnarok. He needed to think. And plan. _Gods_, couldn't Nosgoth just be conquered already? Kain set out to make an empire but Zephon wondered if even he had foreseen how long it would take.

The emperor was calculating. Each major strike was deliberate, even if the fifthborn despised the meager part he had to do. For all of Kain's desire to rule the world, he took far more time than past warmongers. Of course, the advantage of immortality was he had all the time in the world.

Barbarian leaders charged though, burning and destroying, until none resisted them. But human war leaders died, and quickly too. Conquering was not a dependable family trait. The emperor did not merely destroy—he held. He was not just burning down the forest; he was changing it into something entirely new.

It just took time. And of course, according to history, the last time Kain tried to take Nosgoth by brute force, his army had splattered over the rocks and he had almost destroyed himself. Few got such a second chance, but the emperor was smart enough not to waste it.

"My lord?"

Trennen trotted behind him, beside Ryszard. He also led the riderless horse in tow. Zephon thought he heard Ryszard growl in frustration. The vampire seemed to reconsider speaking. It was rare Zephon gave anyone that chance.

"Go ahead and say it. We have a long ride until we reach Ragnarok."

The puzzle gnawed at him again until he was only half listening.

"When Lieutenant Raziel attacked you, why did you not want us to defend you?"

Zephon smiled in the darkness. "Some slights can be taken if there are more important matters. They aren't forgotten—I'll get him for it someday. But not now."

It was common sense but young vampires could be so childlike. _Gods._ He wanted to be back in his library. He could think there. The thought came to him, one so obvious he wondered how he had not thought of it earlier. _I must be getting old._

"Ryszard?"

The gruff vampire was steadfast as always. "Yes?"

"Gevurah can get me back to Ragnarok far more quickly than yours can. Could you make it back to the keep on your own?"

He sensed the warrior's savage grin.

"You don't think I can follow a bloody road?"

Sometimes Zephon forgot why he liked him. His grizzled sarcasm was welcome compared to the tender-tongued sycophants that became vampires as well as humans. Taking Ryszard's reply as all the answer needed, he gave one last instruction.

"Make a stop by Nachtholm. I want a report on its status—how large the garrison still is, what the human activity has been, any significant skirmishes. Look for yourself; do not just take Alexis's word."

Alexis controlled the garrison, though Zephon was planning on replacing him when he could spare the thought. As time went on, he still could not forget the vampire's appalling misstep that had gotten his vampires killed.

Ryszard gave his assent.

"Take a rest if you need it, as well. Your one at Ragnarok was paltry."

"We are far from starving."

Zephon nodded. The vampire needed little instruction. Putting his heels to Gevurah, he quickened into a canter, then a gallop, leaving his two followers.

But he was not a lone creature that night. Too much history had passed to leave the familiar road unoccupied by spirits. He had led an army down this way years ago, leading an attack on Baldur.

Taunting and victorious, Raziel's words dripped in his mind. All his problems had started with that damn human. The thought only made him ride faster, perhaps to get back more quickly; that, or perhaps even the leader of the Zephonim had the urge to flee.


	5. The Library

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 5: **The Library

* * *

The sun glowered behind Ragnarok as Gevurah thundered down the road. _Sunrise, and damn soon by the looks of it._ Like all vampires, Zephon had built up resistance to the sun with age but it still made his eyes irritated with a hood, and watery without. He kicked the destrier and Gevurah quickened his pace. In sunlight, the stallion's speed and strength sunk to just barely above a common horse.

Zephon could hear Gevurah's breath bellowing with each stride. Riding hard for two days with scant pause would have rendered a normal horse a bloody-mouthed corpse long before now. Nor did one ride a trained destrier like a common mount, but Zephon never rode another without dire need. Ragnarok drew closer.

Soon the thudding of hooves against the earthen road changed to clanging upon stone. The gate groaned open enough so that he cantered straight through. Even the dullest guardsmen would know it was the Lord of the Zephonim atop his demonic steed. Any who barred the way would find themselves supplying the blood to restore the fatigued destrier. To give life when created to take others—a complete travesty. The mortifying punishment curbed even the worst habits.

Zephon reined up as he reached the door to the keep, after passing the smaller gate and the drained moat. Leaping off his horse, he ordered the one-eared slave to take care of the animal. Gevurah would have bitten the face off any who touched him without Zephon's say.

The wide door to the keep opened and out walked two familiar figures.

"You're late. I hope ruling has not turned you into complete wastrels," Zephon said with a scowl.

"Never, sire," said Ghislain dutifully.

Isana only smiled and took his arm. Courtly graces clung to her like a lascivious gown. An enticing sight, but discarded with a grin and desirous word.

Knowing that once he began to search he would care as much for war and governing as he would oiling his own saddle, Zephon resigned himself to spending most of his day deciding how much the Zephonim front had gone to hell in his absence.

But first to get out of the sunlight. Some annoyances were not worth bearing.

A soldier and tailor later, Zephon entered the library, feeling restored after the small bloodfeast. Once it had taken ten mercenaries to aid his convalescence after a battle. But that was not a battle he liked to think about. And gluttony was never an elegant vice.

Ghislain and Isana met him at the table at one end of the library. The library in Ragnarok was lavish, with space enough for a lifetime of reading. A chandelier hung from the center of the room, the smell of candle wax overtaking that of paper. Its wealth paled to its beauty though. The best texts had been transported from his last library. It bordered on an obsession—his adjutants said as much when he refused to use fire during a particular siege. To him, it was only sense. Vampires had little in way of collective conscience the way humans did, given their lack of memory upon rebirth. No connection to the world beyond blood.

Zephon slid into his favored chair. "Give me the report. Feel free to skip the boring parts."

Ghislain glanced the parchment in hand, organizing whatever momentous events had befallen his clan.

"There was a small group of insurgents straggling by, a mile or so from here. They were coming from Lord Rahab's lands and had seen heavy combat. They were dealt with easily."

Zephon recalled seeing a bloodstained tabard in the blood pantry. _Breakfast?_

"Good. Were any killed in the skirmish?"

The kestrel-eyed vampire shook his head. "No, sire. One fledgling was stabbed by a stray dagger, but of no real consequence. His training shall intensify."

"Even better," he replied. "What else?"

"Little else. You were only gone a week."

Zephon snorted. "I took Nachtholm in less than a week." _You humiliated yourself in less than a week._ _Damn that Raziel_. "Do not underestimate six or seven days."

"But you were only gone for five," Isana ventured.

He tolerated a degree of insouciance. The twins were among his best after all. He was never a tyrannical father unless he was disobeyed. _Father, pah_. While his relationship with his clan differed from a general and his army, he was not a nurturing broodmare. His less-than-paternal feelings were probably a good thing too, considering his sleeping habits.

"Nothing strenuous could have possibly happened then," he said. "Anything else?"

Ghislain nodded. "A report of the other clans has arrived. From what I can tell, nothing noteworthy besides the standard burning and pillaging of any villages found harboring Thrones."

"All in the work of a conquering empire, of course." He smirked.

"I have it here," said Isana, handing over a thick scroll.

Zephon dropped it on the floor beside him and leaned back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. It was not particularly comfortable, considering he had not removed his armor.

"I shall read it later."

"Lastly," Ghislain continued, his smile growing crooked, "Alexis sends a report that 'Nachtholm holds steady.'"

Zephon rolled his eyes. "Then it's good I sent Ryszard to check. If Alexis is reduced to sending _notes_ to convince me of Nachtholm's security, _something_ is about to crack."

It was almost humorous, were it not _his_ clan. Alexis could be caught in a field during a rainstorm and still say that he was a moment from shelter. Alexis, whose mistakes rivaled his own in infamy. _Why _had Zephon put him in charge of a garrison? Too many ridiculous tasks the empire charged him with, and no time to see to his own clan. The vampire would not be commanding Nachtholm for much longer, even if he had the Blue Thrones offering themselves as war provisions and ritual sacrifices.

As always, he felt a breath of relief nothing calamitous had happened. He used to despise leaving anyone else in charge while he went on with the rest of the legion. Though decades ago he had forced himself to accept it, he still chafed when it was Ragnarok. One was not immortal without being an arrogant bastard.

"Not saving anything horrific?" he asked.

Ghislain shook his head but remained silent. Isana stepped closer, voice low.

"If I may ask, sire," she said, "what happened to Selik?"

Any humor in him died, replaced by somber purpose.

"Kain killed him. I need to find out why."

There was no sharp intake of breath—one did not survive for so long without growing some steel, but the twins' eyes widened.

"Do you think he even had a reason?" said Ghislain.

"No, I'm certain he had one."

The vampires shared a glance that Zephon was in no hurry to catch. The twins often thought together as two sides of a coin.

"Now," he began. "I doubt you will see me for awhile. Manage the keep as usual."

The two vampires knew when he desired solitude. He had always thought better alone, a luxury rarely granted. Once they were gone, he sighed in frustration and picked up the report, none too eager to see the stale conquest.

_Lieutenant Melchiah remains in position at Mürrischtal, at the behest of Emperor Lord Kain…_

Bah, Melchiah was probably thanking Kain for the hiatus. He was one of the few who had no desire to move any faster. Odd, considering he showed his age far more than his brothers.

The list went on. Rahab and Raziel had drawn nearer to the southeastern coast. Zephon rolled his eyes. Raziel was so set on acquiring that damned keep he had mentioned earlier that he had left one town undefended, no doubt expecting Turel to send a detachment and smooth over the rough edges.

Dumah and Turel remained decidedly in the middle, and as such, dealt with the least of the Blue Thrones' resistance. The flanks would always be harried. He wondered though, how long it would take the Thrones to realize that Dumah had spread himself out too thin. While he expanded farther than the rest of the Clans, his garrisons did not grow to match.

Zephon remembered Rahab making some quip as to Dumah converting his blood pantry into a recruitment office. _"Drink or die!" _Dumah had not been amused.

Turel held his forces together with iron-rod discipline but his rear closet to the Sanctuary had weakened over the past year. _Sloppy sloppy, brother. _There was added protection closer to the capital, but that was a shaky card to play. _No, any of the legions would be frayed if they carried the same charges. _

The Blue Thrones continued to press from the northeast. One rebellion after another. But this one carried sharper claws than those in past decades. For once a few of the nobles appeared to unite instead of bury themselves within heavily fortified walls. It angered him he could not tell the size of the army they footed. All the detachments that he had fought had been relatively small. That meant nothing, only that the rebels were willing to bleed some to pull off a victory.

Until their strategy significantly changed, he decided to care little for it until it put more pressure on his own borders. Let Dumah and Melchiah do something.

He resisted the urge to tear the paper to shreds and toss the remains into the fire. Finally his brothers would leave him in peace.

Zephon reached the shelf with books on demons. Taking out four or five volumes, he carried them to his chair, flopped down ungracefully into the seat, and began to read.

* * *

Days after the sun had burned above Ragnarok, it glinted off the still waters that surrounded Nachtholm. They cantered towards the city.

Trennen had smiled when Zephon ordered the detour. Nachtholm was his first great battle. The rivers and lake had given Lord Dracosa the seductive security that Nachtholm was a paradise surrounded by water, forever beyond the reach of a vampire. The lord had destroyed the stone crossings and replaced them with drawbridges.

But they had torn those gates open from within and sent Lord Dracosa staggering bloodily down the steps of his keep, onto the waiting sword of Lord Zephon.

Lord Zephon's planning and tricks got a portion them past the rivers. The castle guard had not looked like much, bleary-eyed in their stupor. Even the returning scouting party attacking from behind had only met with a slaughter.

He had been there, slashing and parrying his way through lethargic guards, the ribbons of blood decorate the landscape.

The glorious memories were enough to block the rising sun; Trennen scarcely noticed it as the towers of Nachtholm soared on the horizon. _And to fight at night, a luxury so rarely afforded. To feel invincible!_

Just then a snort came from far too close and he felt himself jerking forward, not into a fray but onto the sweaty neck of his horse. With a hiss of frustration he hauled on the shying horse's mouth and pushed his weight back into the saddle.

Ahead, the derisory voice called out, "Fall off that horse and you won't be getting back on."

But for once Trennen found he did not care. He scarcely heard. His more pleasant memories were rolling back before the scarred vampire even finished his scolding. He found his memories soothing, dark as a cave and just as welcoming, even as the sun continued to raze down.

* * *

Ryszard was surprised the whelp had not complained yet. The sun rose ahead and even he could feel its strength. The fledgling would feel it even more. Glancing back, he saw that the vampire's gaze was directed at the pommel of his saddle.

He considered stopping again and sending him flying. The idiot would be more vigilant if he had to walk the rest of the way. Yet Nachtholm preoccupied his thoughts. Hell, Alexis ran the garrison; Nachtholm took precedence as a place of disaster.

The bridges were down but the gates remained shut. Good. The drawbridges were always lowered—the irony of becoming trapped in the city surrounded by water did not amuse him.

As he came within several paces of the bridge, he shouted ahead, trusting the lungs he used training fledglings to carry across to the battlements.

"Open up, I come from Lord Zephon!"

No point in mincing ambassador niceties. Alexis could drown himself in indignation for all he cared. After his blunders, the vampire had to have been birthed under a holy star for Zephon not to have killed him. Especially since his mistakes were not so different from Zephon's own.

The gates finally groaned and slid, straining against mechanisms that were better suited keeping them closed than open. That or the dried blood made them stick. Not wasting further time he nudged his horse back into a trot and passed through the gate.

Once through, he spied a single guard pressed against a wall that provided shade, his spear held loosely in his hands. Ryszard grabbed him by the chin and made his courser step nimbly to the side, pulling the vampire with him. The guard's eyes were slits while the grip on his throat was too crushing to fight. Ryszard hauled his chin up until the vampire's lean face stared directly into the sun.

"Next time you let someone pass without even demanding a name, I _will_ put your eyes out," he growled.

Ryszard released his face and the vampire staggered, coughing and scrabbling at his eyes. His sight would recover in an hour if he returned to his shade. Pain taught the best lessons.

Nachtholm used to have more buildings, until its humans lords destroyed them to make room for the walls and a larger castle. Still, he smelled no forge fire. He trotted on to the keep and wondered why the sense of vacancy filled the air. Not even slaves moved through the streets. If everyone here had withdrawn to the keep, it meant only one thing as far as he cared. Alexis had fucked up.

Spurring his horse to a canter, he heard Trennen swear and follow as he rode towards the castle. Vampires grouped together by instinct. Alone, a young vampire could fight off several men. A pack could kill more. An army could take over Nosgoth. It was that simple. At-ease vampires drifted further apart. When something went wrong, pack mentality reared its two-faced head.

At the keep's own gate he was met by more alert guards. Four approached him as he reined in at the gate.

"Get me Alexis."

The first did an admirable job of keeping a neutral face, though he was clearly a fledgling.

"I cannot do that. You must speak to Taug," he replied.

Like hell he was. "I will see the one guilty of this city becoming a stagnant outpost. Get me Alexis."

The guard's fangs glinted on the tops of his lower lips as he tightened his grip on his halberd. "You cannot, I tell you. Taug can explain."

Ryszard reached for his sword. "_You _explain it to me, before I cut you open and call it a court marshaling."

The guard finally cowed. "Taug is training in the castle, go there. I'll see to it that your horses are cared for."

_Wilting sheep_, he thought. _Nachtholm is defended by rabbits._ And too many fledglings. Ryszard decided to find this Taug and then Alexis. A herd of fishwives could raze this rotting carcass of a city.

Ryszard rammed his sword back in its sheath and dismounted.

"Come along, whelp," he called to the still-mounted vampire.

It was not his first time in Nachtholm. The castle looked the same as before. The main doors were ajar to let in air, the portcullis fully raised. Ryszard shouldered in, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

Nachtholm's keep was always strange to him. Whoever first built it intended a stronghold. Later commanders wanted a comfortable residence. Its last human ruler kept it somewhere in between. The rooms had gaping windows, paneled with glass and other painfully breakable things. Now the entry hall was cleared out, with weapon wracks in close reach. Two pairs of vampires sparred in the center. He looked on with disgust. Training indoors was for weaklings, fledglings or not.

Ryszard stalked up to the combatants. "Who is Taug?"

All four came to a reluctant stop, except one who spun around to face him, eyes afire at the interruption.

"I am Taugaral," the vampire said. "And you?"

Had he not seen far stranger things, he would have admitted surprise Taug was female, though blunter and craggier than most of her kind in Zephon's clan. Stranger, dark yellow hair fell to her shoulders.

Ryszard smiled, allowing his teeth to show plainly. "Ryszard, sent by Lord Zephon. Get me Alexis."

Her jaw clenched. "Of course you come _now_."

"What happened?" Of course his suspicion was justified.

She growled in teeth-clenched frustration. "The Thrones have been attacking us for four weeks now."

Ryszard wanted to kill something. If this was a defense, it was the most mucked up farce he had seen in decades. At his steely silence, Taug continued on.

"Every day between noon and dusk, they harry our walls. You missed them by hours."

"The thought of telling someone about this grievance never occurred to you?" he snapped. "Or is it you cannot write?"

"Shove it!" she snarled.

She looked young, but there was a scent that differed from the guards or even the whelp behind him. The answer came a moment later. He allowed a cold chuckle.

"You're a bastard, aren't you?" A vampire sired by someone other than a Lieutenant. Rare, as most of them died within a year or so.

Her fiery scorn froze. She knew her birth put her in danger. In truth he cared not. He doubted Zephon cared either, as long as she was kept out of sight. His eldest brothers were more enraged by the affront to their authority.

"Certainly more of a bastard than I am," Ryszard said. "Now get me Alexis."

"Fine then," she snapped. "Come with me."

Turning, she sheathed her sword and started off to the stone stairs leading to the more ornate part of the castle. The other three vampires were ignored; they should have preferred it. He followed Taugaral. _Gods, when Alexis fucked up, he fucked up. A bastard vampire, a moronic garrison. Even you aren't this bad._ It had been well over five years since he last saw him. Longer since they last spoke.

Whatever was further in the castle, he knew it would only worsen his stormy thoughts.

* * *

Five hours later, he felt himself no closer to some long-eluded truth than when he had set out. The tomes piled around him now. He had a good many books on demons, but seemingly none on what took Selik.

Oddly, as he remembered upon reading, the strongest demons did not possess. They were corporeal and deadly enough on their own. The weaker demons were the ones that needed a host. But the thing inside Selik had been strong. Perhaps a crossbreed is such a thing existed…

No, he had no time for unholy unions or doomed romances.

The page he now looked at was a Dremora demon. None had been seen in half a hundred years. A demon was a species just like anything else. Even they could be driven to extinction.

"If you have not found an answer yet," said a soft voice, "Mayhap you should write Lord Rahab."

Zephon did not bother looking up from the tome, though he was rapidly arriving at the same answer. "The only reason you should be here is if the Blue Thrones are besieging the city," he sniped.

Isana snorted, or at least some feminine thing that resembled one. "Curse me for caring. Any success?"

Finally he looked up at the vampire. She was dressed as before, in some red gown that could not decide if it was elegant or whorish.

"None yet. Just endless pictures and descriptions of things I doubt even exist anymore. No real answers."

Her aquiline expression was mockingly concerned. "Then let Rahab look into it. You haven't even taken off your armor."

With practiced ease he flicked the book up in an arc, where it landed undamaged onto a nearby table. "And you've volunteered yourself as my squire?" he asked with a smirk. As if she would get near a lance or a sweaty horse without scowling.

"You need but ask."

Isana settled onto his lap, her dark hair falling across his chest. She hated _wearing_ armor but her hands were deft at unbuckling his leather cuirass and bracers. He had only worn what was necessary for travel. She would have been busier had he just returned from a battle. Zephon pulled her closer, meeting her coy expression before her mouth met his. When he needed a distraction, Isana was a welcome one.


	6. The Deathbed

**The Longest Memories**

**Chapter Six / Diplomatic Sanctions**

* * *

The Warden returns several months later, alone as she is wont these days. Her spirits have improved.

"They finally tracked me down and ordered me to Weisshaupt," she says, grinning like a rich bandit, legs crossed in front of her in the wide chair. "I saw the boy months back; I always managed to stay ahead of him."

Alistair and Anora sit with the elf in the queen's study, listening as the Warden recounts her merry chase. Anora knows it has taken her through Tevinter and the Free Marches.

"Let me guess, he delivered his letter when you were drunk in a tavern?" Alistair asks, too soft from wine to be judgmental.

"Nay, his horse went lame and I felt sorry for him." The Warden chuckles. "He was a new recruit—I daresay he expected the Wardens to be a more glorious lot."

Anora knows from Nathaniel that the First Warden is furious. He sees the elf as having gone rogue, spat on her duty and thrown herself into fruitless pursuits. Anora sees the Warden the same way, but cannot summon the same anger. Nathaniel has repeatedly told Weisshaupt the Warden has left on important missions, but Vigil's Keep's treasurer gainsays his interference.

"I never saw Weisshaupt," Alistair says. "It's cold, dry, and dour from what Duncan said."

"Aye, I wouldn't be going if it weren't for their archives."

Anora quirks an eyebrow. The Warden's gaze is distant, her hands tilting a wine glass.

"I still have no idea where Corypheus is. But I did learn the Grey Wardens created his tomb."

"My dear, if the Wardens have him, can you not simply ask?"

Anora knows _my dear_ is Alistair's secret term for _my love_. He calls her that only when he worries. The Warden fixes him with a wry look.

"You know how Duncan forgot to mention I'd live thirty years, have nightmares, and spend myself penniless from hunger? Apparently the Taint makes all Wardens amnesiacs. Mistress Woolsey had no idea what I was talking about. Corypheus is their secret." She scoffs. "Now I'm _really _curious."

"Somehow I do not think they wish a casual chat of antiquities," Anora says.

The Warden scowls. "Oh no, it's censure. What the fuck are they going to do to me? Kick me out? If they have a way to suck the Taint from my bones, I welcome it. If I can live to see a gray hair, sleep through the night…" She looks down sullenly. "I wish I could ride here on a summer day like this and not feel them a hundred paces below, looking for a way to start the next Blight. I'll go to Weisshaupt, put up with their bitchery, and dig through their archives. You have to brave the dragon to find its hoard, aye?"

Alistair shoots Anora an alarmed look. She has told him of the Warden's search, but moderated the obsession. Let him think she is still his ferocious adventurer. Let him deal with her this time and make his own conclusions. Anora excuses herself, not expecting him to come to bed. He does not.

The Warden leaves a week later. The princess is sad to see her go. Anora knows the girl adores the Warden, her reputation bolstered by Alistair's nostalgic tales.

Her summoning to Weisshaupt is a ridiculous affair, Nathaniel writes a month later. She united Ferelden against the Blight—as much as they might revile her now, there is little they can do beyond terse words and calls for reform. She bargained with an intelligent darkspawn and let it live; they cannot forgive her.

In the end, the Grey Wardens admit she serves them better as a mobile asset, going where they need aid. They forbid her from any further pursuit of Corypheus. Anora would laugh—they do not know they must make her _swear_. The Warden will just see the demand as a challenge.

* * *

Sometimes, Anora forgets the Warden and Alistair are discrete so that she will not hear about it. Her husband's kindness and his willing abeyance to her rule make her forget another holds a place in his heart.

She returns to her bedchamber early the next noon, eager to change clothes for practice with her bow. After dealing with the bannorn, sometimes loading a target with fletching is the only way she does not order them all in chains. She is Ferelden—violence will always be an outlet.

Anora turns the handle, opening a door a crack just as a slender hand pulls her back by her wrist. Erlina stands there, eyes swimming with concern.

"I believe the King is indisposed," her confidante whispers. "The princess asks if you would like to go with her on a ride."

"Of course," Anora replies, and Erlina knows from her tone she needs to remove her from the hall.

She saw through the gap in the door, and knows what writhes beyond.

The Warden rides her king and consort, hair spilling like a storybook harlot down her gleaming back, swirling along the knobs of her spine. Her eyes are closed, delirious in lust. She moans and mewls deep in her throat—had the walls and door not been built so thick, Anora would have heard her down the hallway.

Anora moves away, Erlina clinging to her as if she is some weak-willed Orlesian countess who just realized the realities of the world.

The Warden keeps her word. Anora is not embarrassed. She is cold, heart punctured by a spear of ice.

* * *

"Damned Orlesians," Anora hisses, some years later.

Alistair sits up, sleep fading from his eyes. "The Chantry kind or the stinky cheese kind?"

"I don't know if they know themselves, anymore."

Anora lets the paper fall into her lap. She does not take to reading correspondences in bed—elsewise she would rival her husband in poor sleep—but she makes exception for Orlesian news ever since she first heard the rumblings of conquest.

"What gossip?" he asks quietly.

The news comes from her father in Montsimmard, more blunt and intuitive than her agents. Wardens forsake king and country after the Joining, but no force in the world will supplant Ferelden for her father. A grand duke—_servant-raping bastard, he writes_—has formed an alliance with several influential nobles, first among them a duchess—_painted, backstabbing harlot, he writes_—to press demands on the Empress. Lower crown authority seems likely. An invasion of Ferelden, another. While he will never like the Empress, his lack of derogatory remarks concerning her person makes Anora surmise Celene is against invasion.

An invasion cannot happen. The bannorn is already short on levies. Those they have are needed to rebuild. The treasury lacks coin to hire enough mercenaries to repel an invasion, and Anora will not become a beggar queen.

Her father would ride to each chateau and slaughter every duke and duchess with the word "expansion" on their carmine lips, but Anora must make Orlais see Ferelden will not be—as the Warden might say—fucked with.

"We will need to best Orlais with diplomacy," she says. "Don't you agree?" She tries to ask his opinion whenever she can. She has taught him well over the years, and he stays happy knowing she heeds his counsel. Appears to heed, sometimes, but Anora does not say that.

"I don't want to use our daughter like a bargaining chip."

Anora shakes her head. "Nor I." She does not say why. "We need to forge more alliances, besides trade. Thankfully most countries have some grudge against Orlais. The Free Marches, for a start. They value independence." She thinks more, a plan sketching itself in her mind. "Alistair, you should travel abroad to make allies. I can stay here and respond quickly to any developments."

Her husband sputters. He can look regal when he wishes—he has learned to dampen his boyish smile to an intelligent if kind grin. Without clothes, he looks almost guileless.

"Aren't you the diplomat between us? I'm a—"

"—King," she states. She has dragged him like a stubborn horse out of most of his lingering insecurities, but flickers sometimes appear. "Fools say you're a royal bastard. Fools say I'm an up-jumped farm girl. Your kin may have denied your legitimacy, but you grew into your crown better than any blueblood."

Fools also say she has groomed him like a lapdog. _Idiots._ Her mother died young. If anything happens to her, she will not leave her husband like a sheep at slaughter.

He grins sheepishly at the compliment. She does not flatter him with untruths. When he began learning of politics, she kept him beside her at court. At first he observed. She wanted him to collect precedents, and realize any attempt to curtail her would leave him adrift in a squall of legislation. Soon, she let him answer basic petitions—she would give small nods or dissents only he could see, and if he understood her reasoning, he would concede a cause to the petitioner. If he did not know, it was not a king's prerogative to explain his every decision. She let him sit through the discomfort of giving the unexcused final word; he best get used to it. They traded places some days—precedents are useless without a mind to understand and reform them. By the time her child made sitting on the throne a back-seizing agony, she trusted his judgment.

Erlina had stood close, in case a noble presumed too much. Anora smiled savagely from her bed when her confidante described Alistair's refusal to a bann's presumptuous request.

"Can I take someone along at least? Uncle Teagan?"

She would insist he take a companion. What pleases her is his suggestion. Bann Teagan has none of the stodgy hang-ups regarding foreigners shared by most banns. Perhaps the one good influence of Lady Isolde. Nor does he play the same games as his brother.

"That is a good thought." Anora smiles. "Teagan will be good company."

He kisses her, sweetly, softly. He is not always as sweet or as soft; she would find him insufferable otherwise. She lets fools mistake her king's friendliness for simplicity and artless candor. He will never be a schemer, but she fills that role. She rules, he leads, though the line blurs often enough.

"I think Kirkwall would be a good place to start," she says. "That was—"

"—where the Ferelden apostate beat back the Qunari?"

Anora smiles with pride. "They named him Champion for that," she muses. "His influence is public rather than political; they still do not have a new viscount. But Kirkwall is a city-state; a rich, powerful citizen can have substantial weight. Even a mage, I suppose."

One Ferelden mage defeated an Arishock in open combat. The city-states are strange places to her. She hears rumors the Knight-Commander there has gone mad, torturing mages and bathing in their blood. She doubts the bathing part, but other rumors seem true to one with unchecked power and a righteous hatred. And still a mage possesses the city's highest honor.

"I wonder if I saw him."

"When?"

"Lothering," he answers. "We passed through after Ostagar. There's an adventure novel about the exploits of the Champion, Hawke, and it claims he's an apostate from Lothering."

"You read adventure novels?" she asks, prodding him with her foot._ Lothering_, of all places.

"She likes them before bed," he miffs.

Alistair is raising his princess to be a warrior queen. Even her dreams swirl with duels and derring-do. Anora thanks the Maker the girl is also clever.

While he travels the Marches, Anora will comb for Orlesian agents. She has her own in Orlais; it is foolish for them not to have the same. She does not kill them unless they moonlight as assassins—Empress Celene pays blood with blood. Instead she befriends them, feeds them. A wrong spy cuts more than a dead one.

In the best of all worlds, Orlais would erupt in civil war and smash their chevaliers into each other instead of her border. If she must find a way to prod such inclinations in Orlais' sullen nobility, so be it. Whichever side won, Ferelden would have more time to prepare, and if invasion happened, a winded enemy.

Thoughts flowering in her mind, she makes a note to ask her father and her agents—how much does Empress Celene wish to avoid war with Ferelden?

* * *

The princess will be a battle maid if her father has any say in it. Alistair has begun to teach her the basics of swordplay. Anora is relieved the girl is young enough to see it as a game. Though her husband means well, the child is agile more than strong. Anything larger than a buckler will send her careening onto the grass. She knows to wait for her best moment—the time to ask for a present now, the time to land a dagger in the kidneys when she is older. Perhaps she needs a different sort of instructor. The queen recalls two of the Warden's companions, the elf Zevran and the red-haired Leliana. They moved like foxes, as lethal in a single strike as some warriors are in an entire fight. A bard and an assassin, she thinks. What _fine_ mentors for her child.

Anora watches them for a second reason. Abilities gained as a Templar remain even when their user cares nothing for the Chantry. Even if she were of mind to hide a mage-child from the Circle, Alistair would sense the magic just as she senses lies. Potential mage-child, Anora corrects herself. Who can say what she saw, flooded in pain, emotions racing as the princess uttered her first cry. She only has a few more years of painful waiting before she knows.


	7. The Decision

**Chapter 7: The Decision**

* * *

He sprawled across the leather sofa, one arm behind his head and the other holding the book above his face. As a vampire, it was all rather undignified. But then none saw him thus, with the exception of his brother and a few others who wanted to appease their master more than catch the Spider Lord as anything less than a respected Lieutenant.

The pages of Old Nosgothic turned slowly. He could read it but it took more concentration.

As he had guessed, Rahab grew curious enough to help. He looked at home, wrapped in a cobalt silk robe, languorous on a wide chair. To Zephon's annoyance, the vampire flipped pages barely after the previous one had settled, even though the text was ancient and mottled with ink splotches. How did he have _time_ to lounge around studying antiquities?

He settled deeper into the sofa, restless with disgust at the absurd lack of information. Two days! On the second day Rahab had brought in a few of his trusted kin to aid in the endeavor. Several of his brood were scattered now throughout the room as well, those fortunate enough to not be encamped at Atziluth. So far they only took up space and added more shadows.

"You know, brother, I have no idea why I have not found anything," Rahab said, peering over the top of a cracked green cover.

His skin was odd, Zephon decided, too irritated to concentrate on anything substantial. He and his other brothers had the marble white skin that they passed onto their own broods. The paleness of Rahab's skin seemed translucent. In the candlelight the strange quality increased, his veins stark along his throat. Rahab gave no notice to Zephon's study.

"It is so strange that I find it suspect," his brother continued. "Humans can never keep their records straight. But that is obvious. One can hear about Prince Besmir fleeing from battle and dying a coward or Besmir cornered and taking his own life. Either way, Besmir was a prince who died during a war. This, however..."

"There is nothing."

Rahab nodded. "The books are too clean. Somewhere there has to be a mention of something like this. But I cannot find anything close. Demons are rare and should thus have large quantities of writing as compensation. With scant mentions, I grow puzzled. With nothing, I grow suspicious."

"Do you think Kain had it erased from history?"

"No brother." Rahab rolled and stretched his shoulders, like a snake about to shed its skin. "Kain cannot be the perpetrator of every crime. To wipe something from history itself…that would take someone right when it occurred, before many could know. Books are burned, as are people. But people can whisper something right before the stake."

Zephon knew this, though he had never connected it with the fledgling's murder. People kept things out of books for a reason. Rarely good, but always interesting.

"Sire?"

His brother turned to one of the Rahabim hunched over a thick book. With his enviable elegance, Rahab glided over.

"What have you read, sirrah?"

The vampire thought a moment before speaking. "You say history purposely excluded this...creature. But here you might find something worthwhile."

Rahab placed a claw on the page as his eyes danced through the script.

"The handwriting of a priest." He continued to read. "Well…this would prove odd."

Zephon twisted upright. "What?"

Rahab regarded him with a certain smile. He always smiled like that when he found something ironic. Less symmetrical than his commonplace smile of superiority.

"Have you heard of the Order of Dumah?"

Zephon snorted. "Our brother has his own order now? What do they worship? His commanding presence? His vainglorious valor?"

"No—angelic Dumah, not vampiric Dumah. The angel of silence, who…"

A peculiar expression skittered across Rahab's face. The humor left his smile and his eyes closed a half-moment too long to be normal—Rahab's eyes barely blinked. Just as quickly it passed. Zephon would have inquired but for his preoccupation. Rapping his claws against the wooden table, Rahab continued, happy to pontificate.

"It was an order of priests, some of which used magic. They were hated, during the ages of the Sarafan and before. Vows of silence, sacrifice, chancing into dark magic—not a saintly order." He chuckled, a cool wind over a black lake. "Every book they wrote was banned, if not sought out and burned."

_Wonderful, an ostracized priesthood_. But Zephon stayed quiet. His brother spoke too much when he had something to explain, but it was always calculated.

"The Sarafan tolerated heretics as much as vampires. Most were disbanded. So claimed the Sarafan histories, biased as they are. The Sarafan sympathizers forget to mention the torture and burning. But the men of this order," his ironic smile returned, "found the best way to keep themselves alive was to summon demons to their defense. I have certainly never heard of towering demons defending priests." He let the possibility go unsaid.

From beneath the waves of simmering anger that had crashed about since the throne room, Zephon found a moment of hope.

"With the nagging trouble of vows of silence, and a stroke of luck for you, the Order had a penchant for writing. Much was destroyed, yes, but if any group could keep a hold of its records, it would be them."

"They could have the answers," Zephon said.

"More than my library, I ascertain."

"Then they all must be long-dead," Zephon's voice dripped in bitter sarcasm.

"No, surprisingly. They retain one holding, the Silenced Cathedral. More of a castle than a cathedral but they take their religion seriously. They make no offensive moves against us and so we have not taken them yet. Kain has told me nothing about bringing it down—"

"Meaning he never said anything in earshot of your spies."

Rahab was the picture of wide-eyed innocence. "Why would I spy on the one who gave me a kingdom? As I was saying, do not expect a kind welcome. And brother…" Rahab's smile turned sardonic. "You just sent the rest of your vampires to Atziluth."

_Damn._ Kain had sent the order and he obeyed, like a good little lieutenant. He wondered sometimes why he even bothered to listen anymore, except that a moment later he knew his defiance would end impaled on the Soul Reaver or hurled into the Abyss. Neither fate held any appeal. Zephon stirred out of his thoughts to regard Rahab.

"I can withdraw some of them from Atziluth. Sandulf is still baiting Raziel—he won't show his numbers for months I would guess."

"You would leave our brother to this?" Rahab's tone held no accusation, only curiosity.

Zephon scowled. "You are my only brother these days, and Turel on a few others."

"Calm your intemperance," he chided. "Was it not you who mocked humanity for its inner-fighting?"

"We were human once," Zephon groused.

Rahab's expression wavered again but he held it in far more control than the last time. "We _were_. And if you recall your forces for personal vendettas, you know how our lord-father will answer."

But Zephon's mind was spinning and he was almost euphoric. "Do we? No one has defied Kain. We all have pushed the seals of orders or made calls before he assented but none have done this. He rages, but some of it must be for show—"

"Zephon." The iciness made him halt.

"You disapprove of taking the cathedral?" Zephon snapped back. "I thought you had to know everything."

"What could I say to you?" Rahab waved a dismissive hand. "I cannot see everything you do when planning an attack, just as you cannot see what I do the rest of the time."

The lack of an affirmative rankled him. But it was a cathedral, not a fortress. He could seize it quickly, and then send his vampires back to Atziluth. He might face anger but this was the time for building empires. Kain had to know that if one of them fell, the tenuous hold he never wanted them to see would pitch further. And he would have his answers.

"I will go. Damn Kain, damn them all." The calm he had built up for years was cracking as a fierier desire took hold.

"Damn Baldur?" Rahab said softly.

Leave Rahab to douse him in ice water. "Mention Baldur and I might lose my respect for guest right."

"Then I would not give you the map to the cathedral."

There were times he adored Rahab just as he wanted to hit him. So he laughed, earning the cautious looks of the nearby Rahabim. Rahab eased his arrogant smirk and began to study the books on a nearby shelf. Finding a tall slender one, he flipped through the heavy pages. Within the time Zephon cocked an expectant eyebrow, his brother was handing it to the fledgling who had first supplied the page for Rahab to muster his revelation.

"Find Shahar and have him copy this map. I want it now."

As the fledgling left, Zephon looked to Rahab. His brother was leaning against the table, studying something only he could see.

"I would not read so much, brother," he said after a long while.

Zephon was as incredulous as if the book itself had piped up. "_You_ say this?"

"It is easy to find things that are troubling, and impossible to look away."

Zephon bit back his retort. His brother was acting strange today. Everyone was. The world had gone insane though it had probably always been that way. But he would at least get to the cathedral.

His reason had not fled entirely though. He flitted through every front his legion was on, and which ones were easy to hold. Stierstadt was a farce. The garrison at Atziluth was close enough to Raziel's land that if anything catastrophic happened, the firstborn would gallop in on Malkuth, cut a bloody trail, and then let Turel deal with any remnants. Gershom Pass had finally settled after three years of steel and blood.

His thoughts drifted to the other lieutenants. Dumah did not defend his borders well enough. Raziel could destroy anything he set his mind to, one way or the other. Turel had the disadvantage of being saddled with anything that Raziel had no interest in reshaping after he demolished it. Melchiah did what he was told, then promptly returned to building his cities. But for all of that they were glorious. It was a skeletal glory, but undeniable. It was just a matter of time. It was a far deadlier weapon than swords or vampiric horses.

"Here it is, my sire."

The fledgling returned with the book, as well as a thick sheet of parchment. Rahab took it, gave it a glance that instantly memorized its contents, and held it out for Zephon. It was large, allowing the scale of the land to show. The cathedral was in territory that Raziel would almost certainly occupy in a few years. Stealing something that would one day belong to his older brother was not unappealing.

Rahab stood there, always cool and collected, untouched by the fire emanating from his brother. "I wish you luck in your endeavor. I hope it does not cause you too much grief. Whatever you think of Kain, remember our sire single-handedly brought down the Pillars and the Sarafan Lord. His path of blood should make any wary of his reprisal."

He knew Rahab would never betray him though, despite his warnings. Not when it would implicate him. Zephon rolled the map up and turned to the fledgling.

"Ready my horse."


	8. The Battle

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 8: The Battle**

* * *

It was useless to train them. _Womanly whelps._ Ryszard surveyed his ridiculous contingent and wondered how many ribs he would have to break for them to act like vampires. Twice now he had lashed out at one of them, cracking something that would hurt rather than impede. He needed them to fight, after all.

As highly as he considered his prowess in battle, even he could not train the lethargic ninnies into something Zephon would not laugh at in the span of a day. His sire would not laugh at this rabble though; he would probably order them flayed.

The Zephonim were not as naturally strong from birth as those from the broods of Zephon's older brothers. Training corrected much of this imbalance. And for that reason, Zephon could be zealous with training. He would have thrown far greater a rage than Ryszard, anyhow. Then again, his sire had a fury in him that rarely saw the service. It was a starved beast when it emerged.

Here, Ryszard only had their raw strength and fear of him. They were stronger than humans, especially at night. Not necessarily better in swordsmanship or archery, but in brute force even a pathetically weak vampire would win nineteen times out of twenty. These humans were not dealing in brute force though. No matter. He would merely feel more accomplished nailing their corpses to the walls.

The vampires were arrayed belowand at his flanks. He stood at the battlements of Nachtholm, the stone parapets coming up to his chest while he remained on the thin wall-walk. Nachtholm had too-thin walls a weak gatehouse, with its former leaders' assumption that the water would stave off any attack.

Those beside him lined up along the wall, armed and ready. The rest below, a few on horses. Few of the animals remained, culled to provide blood for impulsive fledglings who forgot they needed slaves for the upkeep work they did not want to do. The vampires were armed, but not nearly so ready. He could smell the acidic scent that wafted from their forms. _Fear._ The worst thing to befall a vampire. A vampire was not born with fear, only instinct. But once fear bit down it never let go.

He knew why they were scared. They had the memory of their leader and the reality of his maddened form. They were scared and that left them scrabbling at their immortality. Ryszard did not fear water. He avoided it, disliked it, and would never stick a hand in it, but he did not fear it. Water remained in rivers or pots. These humans used it as a weapon but he would face it like any other tactic.

Fear? They would know fear, and not from these defiant humans.

Taug stood several feet away. The four long cuts down her face looked days old on a human, hours old on a vampire. As did the gouges in his own neck. Her sideways glare stood out with her blue eyes, though her attention was closer directed over the lake and onto the near fields. Ryszard heard it too. People moving.

He eyed Trennen who stood farther down. The vampire stared at the mortar between the stones. Ryszard thought the amount of time the vampire had remained silent was becoming strange. Trennen hated him, and Ryszard did not give a damn. As long as he followed his orders, he could care less if the whelp dreamed of ripping his throat out one day. He would never be able to. As it was, he expected more anticipation—the whelp was good with a bow.

His attention snapped back to the advancing rebels. They were at the lake and filing onto the bridge while some stayed back at the shore. He eyes the riders who were furthest. A vanguard. Likely their leader was the one on the black horse, pacing the animal between his troops. Of course it was a mere _boy_, he would expect nothing less.

Once, the wooden crossing had been a drawbridge but now the mechanism was broken. The city gate opened up onto a shore that met the bridge. A small space-some of Nachtolm's walls came up from the water.

The vat of wax was beside him, clear as water over the fire. Boiling water was too dangerous to use with these vampiric rats, and the oil supply was gone. As it was, Nachtholm had very few candles left, and any outgoing letters would bear no seal.

There could not have been more than a hundred and a half men, against fifty vampires. The odds made it simple; the vampires of Nachtholm made it embarrassing. And in either case, the size of the battle was primitive.

The humans crossed the bridge. Their front line carried pikes. _Damn horse-stickers._ They would have to go first.

"Ready yourselves," Ryszard ordered.

The vampires stirred behind and around him. This was where he was best—ordering the decimation of anyone who refused to back down.

The rebels had archers with them. From that Ryszard knew they also had the capacity for lightening their arrows on fire. An arrow's only good use against a vampire was if it was on fire, unless it got lucky enough to hit an eye.

Finally the pikemen were there, almost too close to shoot at without making the vampires vulnerable.

He gave the signal.

The two vampires to his left dragged the vat to the wall and pushed—the wax poured out like liquid hell. He counted on surprise. Oil had the advantage of setting it on fire but wax would work. Wax hardened. Cries cut the air as the wax rained down, cries that sharpened when the wax found any niche of skin.

Ryszard stepped back, feeling the beginning flush of exhilaration. The air whipped under his jaw, stinging the wounds on his neck, and it thrilled him. He wheeled to see the vampires behind him with bows, just as the humans released a few harmless arrows that pinged off the battlements.

"Taugaral, kill them."

It was a compromise, a grudging, snarling compromise they had made. She could command the archers, the contentious bitch. It was no kneeling to her senseless demands. He had told her that as his claws raked through her jaw, as blood poured from his own throat. But he saw none who had the slightest grasp of tactics, while she was the only one who had assumed any form of command. Sothoth had been clever and calculating, but according to the bastard vampire, Sothoth had lost his head dragging Alexis back to Nachtholm.

With his command and the bastard's cold-eyed nod, Ryszard sprang from the wall, falling the distance and landing in a crouch. Leaping up he swung onto his horse. Landing directly on it would have broken its back.

Now he had to get these whelpish vampires to engage a wall of pikes. The bridge created a choke-point, and the shore was scarce space to move infantry and horses. The destruction of the second gate made flanking them impossible. But they would not expect a direct attack, after weeks of stalemate. Zephon had not told him to start a battle. Ryszard would deal with that later. Now he had throats to tear.

He signaled.

Some infantry moved to open the gate. Without an order the paltry cavalry grouped behind him. _Insolent, untrained fools._ But now was one of the few times it was not right for a court marshaling.

"You're hungry for blood and vengeance," he roared at the nearby vampires. "You won't get anything without killing for it!"

The gates finally opened with a groan. Ryszard did not waste a moment. With a command to follow, he erupted forward, unsheathing his broadsword and clamping his legs to the animal's sides. The gateway was a blur as the rebellion rushed to meet him.

He had told them before—charge them dead on and the horses die while their riders are crushed or beheaded. The shore, however, did not drop off immediately There was a band of knee-deep water that the horses could gallop through, flanking the pikemen closest to the gate. Ryszard could see the readied pikes, long poles of wood with savage metal heads, sharpened and curved and ready to disembowel a horse or vampire. Pikemen did not turn so easily though, not when a wrong move could kill a neighbor. If the were like most of the humans, they also carried stakes at their waists, two foot long miniature spears, thicker than a real spear. Their intention was not to kill but to hold—to impale a vampire and trap him to the ground, giving time for a quick decapitation. Behind the pikemen were a few men at arms, then the length of unoccupied bridge, then more infantry and the vanguard.

The pikemen would not know about the space for a flank attack. The horses cut to each side. He saw some of the vampires look panicked at the thought of bounding into water, even if it would only dampen their boots. At least he would know which were pathetic and which had potential.

His courser surged through the brackish shallows, sending up waves from its bounding shoulders. His hands wore gauntlets and his boots reached his knees; a stray drop or two licked his face, but the flinch of surprise from the pikemen banished all sting. He cleaved the first man's face in half as his courser plunged into their ranks.

Two riders were soon beside him, one riding a bay and the other a black. The pikemen begun to swing, their reach already too long. And too, some were occupied with the few fools who balked at the water and tried to charge their frontline. Such idiots deserved their inglorious end.

Ryszard kicked the horse, causing it to pivot on its back legs as he struck out with his sword. It was only for a second, and he sent the courser sprinting forward again. A horse was only useful as long as it kept moving. From below soldiers sprang to the sides, never expecting a charging horse to be amongst their ranks. Some would not move and they were trampled. Others tried to bring the courser down but Ryszard always killed them before they could get a stab in. Their pikes were too long and their feet too slow. He spotted more horses galloping alongside the flanks of the humans, their riders stabbing and diving. Finally he neared the end of the lines with bridge before him.

_Now._

A small eruption came from past the gate as the remaining vampires not on horses or the wall rushed forward, striking the stunned lines. Ryszard's teeth snapped in frustration as he realized that the vampire on the bay horse was no longer beside him. Probably dead. Once more horses and a few on foot joined him, he galloped over the bridge.

Nachtholm's archers were not aiming for the pikemen. They shot at the other archers, keeping them occupied while Ryszard reached their back lines. He could survive an arrow to the chest, but it could fell his horse. He looked for the leader. Obliging, the young human charged up, now wearing a helm. His vanguard followed. The first lost his arm and lurched off his horse. The second—Ryszard felt only mild surprise, then excitement, as the helmeted man met his attack with a parry, disengaging and wheeling his mount around. The coward took off, a blue cloak flapping behind him, his leave signaling the other horsemen to retreat with their leader. A craven captain.

The human lines nearest Nachtholm were buckling but not entirely broken, while the infantry on his side were fighting their way across the bridge. With their own infantry and archers, the vampires should by every right be able to hold them, now that they were in a battle against floundering lines. A blind, clap-ridden idiot could win such a fight.

He looked to the six mounted vampires who had followed him. The other half where nowhere to be seen, though he did notice a bay horse flailing on its side, blinded in fear and pain as its shattered leg jerked back and forth.

"After them," Ryszard commanded.

His vampires managed to to disengage as Ryszard spurred his horse into a gallop after the captain. The courser's hooves dug into the soft loam and Ryszard kept his eyes away from the sinking sun. As he gained ground, the horse's sinewy legs churning up the short hill, two of the riders broke off, making a mad dash to a distant copse. Ryszard ignored them. Pitiful decoys.

The camp was only blocked by brush and spikes, long things jutting from the ground. Ryszard expected it and guided the horse along the same path as the captain. The other vampires fell in behind.

"Destroy it all," he snarled. "Capture who you can, kill who you want." If they preferred bloodlust over restocking their blood pantry, he would wait to berate them.

For once they followed his orders with some zeal.

They must have been angry, deep down, beneath that cowering fat. Furious for the humans dominating them for so long—for making the rules in a world where vampires ruled supreme. Whatever anger might have remained raged to the surface as they set upon the camp, shrieking battlecries and savage intents.

It did not take long for the humans in the camp to realize they were under attack. The vampires set to bloody work on any who came near, stabbing and severing and trampling. That was not to say the rebels did not try to fight back. There must have been a storage of water somewhere, for suddenly one of the horses twisted and shrieked, not knowing why its rider writhed and screeched as the skin on his arms melted away.

Ryszard still chased the helmed commander. Alexis deserved the captain's corpse broken and bloody.

The captain tried to veer to the left, and so Ryszard sped up, leaping over a tent and landing several paces in front of him. The other horse skidded to a stop and the captain slid up to vampire practically chained and gift-wrapped. Except he was making a bid for it, bringing his sword back for a thrust.

Ryszard struck first, slashing at the man's belly. Bless the captain's stars but the horse shied, making the captain twist as the blade hit him. Steel caught him full on and sent him crashing backwards off the horse. The snap of bones was all Ryszard needed to hear.

Victory cried for blood. There was plenty of it here.

It did not take long to demolish the camp. Ryszard acerbically regarded the vampire who rode up with a woman in his arms.

Her thin dress was ripped from a shoulder already scraped from the claws of a vampire dragging her into the saddle. The wench looked half-ravaged already. As it was she whimpered deep in her throat as tears and snot ran down her face.

"Not for the blood pantry?" the vampire asked.

_To the victors go the spoils_.

"You survived, keep her," he replied.

With a smile pulled wider by adrenaline the vampire readjusted his grip across her waist, keeping her pressed against him. Finally the woman shattered, her shrieks only silenced by a hand seizing her throat. They all stopped crying in time. The woman was comely in the frail way of humans, he guessed. Such specimens were rarely an immediate dinner.

Ryszard was content with the destruction. Now to return to the fools holding defending the city.

* * *

He did not know if it had been moments or days. With a groan that hurt his chest he reached up to wrench off his helmet. It came off with painful resistance, the dried blood sealing his hair to the metal. When he breathed it hurt deep inside. When he tried to piece together thoughts, his head throbbed worse.

Alaric Raginmar could only screw his eyes shut as the low sun blazed in. _To sleep, to die, perchance…_he could not finish the line, nor remember who wrote it. But oblivion was a comfort then. Except a nagging thought somewhere, far away. He wanted to stay here forever, while something hummed for him to try to stand. But standing seemed far beyond him.

The earthly sound of hooves over grass made him look. The sun hung low, almost gone. The stench of blood was acrid in the air. With the stink came recollection—terrible, blood-filled recollections. Of running, desperate to get back to the camp, desperate to…

The sound drew closer and he snapped into further awareness. _The vampires._ They had followed, despite the decoys.

Alaric rolled onto his knees as fire lanced across his belly. He brought his arms out to bear his trembling weight like an animal. Pain roared through his arm, calling out so pure and furious that he dropped onto his opposite shoulder, clasping at the forearm that had no strength to hold support him.

"Alaric!"

The call accompanied an increase in the hoofbeats. From the side of his vision he saw boots hit the ground before the hooves came to a stop. In another second hands were at his chest and back, easing him up holding him there by his shoulders. It was Joren.

"I think my arm is broken," Alaric croaked. He spat a glob of clotted blood, his cheek missing a chunk of flesh.

The man was too frenzied to hear. "We took off to the forest but they wouldn't follow. I wanted to come back, but your orders—"

"Insured not everyone was killed. Who has survived?" he asked mechanically.

Joren's face had paled. "Adal, you, and I," he started, his words unsteady. "Adal hasn't seen any others.

Alaric heaved himself up with his good arm, forgetting the pain for a moment as his legs quavered to find strength. As it was he needed Joren's shoulder to stay upright.

"_Galvira_" he cried, staggering into his scout.

His stride looked to fail him at any moment as he stumbled towards what had formally been a tent. Nothing was there. Corpses were everywhere, but none his wife's. Her absence rather than her death shook him greater. She could have run and hidden herself, but by this time she would have been back. The truth was a painful knot in his throat.

They were all dead. He was wounded. He continued to search, tripping over his own feet, and by the time he had fully covered the camp, sobs were making him stumble more than physical weakness. His gentle, beautiful wife. All knew what vampires did to beautiful women, just like Mother, and his grandmother Isana.

His uncle would rage and call him the destroyer of carefully made plans but Alaric cared not. He had steel in him that could be heated and hardened.

By the time Joren caught up with him, Alaric had quelled his tears and cursed them for ever breaking. He forced his back to straighten, tugging at the cut to his belly. Despair remained, but he saw past the pained glaze. Whatever his agony over his wife and his injuries, his voice was firm.

"Find the survivors. We're not dead yet."


	9. The Cathedral

**Chapter 9: The Cathedral**

* * *

Ryszard cantered back to Nachtholm, his vampires trailing behind. He was content with the success. The men they destroyed could not be particularly significant but any destruction was good for this weak garrison.

Like many things in his unlife, it suddenly crashed down around him.

The Thrones remained at the gates of Nachtholm, unable to breach but still digging in. Now they would make every bid to take the city, with its gates swung open like the legs of a whore. Fuck it, he left for a few minutes and everything went to hell. This left little hope in Nachtholm's ability to do more than hold out behinds its walls.

"_Attack_," he roared as he kicked the sweat-slicked horse into a gallop, unsheathing his bloodstained sword once more.

The vampires followed, along with a woman's shriek. He hoped the wench was shut up, preferably by being knocked unconscious.

No one in the human infantry had time to turn as Ryszard raced across the bridge. By that time some of the backmost lines were twisting. From their armor, Ryszard could see a number of the vampires in the fray while more held the gate. They were unable to drive them back, unable to retreat, and unable to lock their comrades out of the city. Ridiculous fodder.

He ripped through the backlines, his courser trampling the ones directly ahead while his sword killed any to the sides. It was like moving through a field of wheat.

When Ryszard and the rest of the horsemen reached almost to the front of the lines he wheeled his horse around. The path of destruction behind him still groaned and died in sprays of blood. The Thrones were not so eager now. Those were his thoughts as suddenly the soldiers in front of him suddenly stopped acting like thrashing rebels.

He noticed them, that the ones in front of him all had large shields. Someone shouted a command. As a single unit they bared their shields and pushed. Before Ryszard could turn the horse they slammed into it, driving it sideways. The animal staggered as Ryszard struck out with his sword. It clanged and screeched against one of the shields, tearing through a leather cover to reveal iron.

_Dogs!_

He wheeled his horse to face them and spurred it forward. They had parted like sheep before, like buttery sheep in fucking summer. This time they didn't. The shields formed a wall, a moving wall that began to push him back. Ryszard wondered why he was not attacked from behind but a brief glance revealed that the other vampires were holding them off. How this line had gotten ahead he had no idea.

A snarl tore from his lips as he struck out, but the horse made it impossible to strike anything in front of him. The animal began to walk backwards, too rattled to spring out of the way. From the space between two shields came several spears.

_A goddamn shield wall?_

The gap opened wider, and Ryszard realized the horse was going to be skewered.

But then from above crashed two forms, one landing directly on the man carrying the spear. Only a breaking spine could account for that cacophony of snaps.

Ryszard swore at his stupidity and kicked the horse as hard as he could. As the line of shields stopped in confusion, Ryszard sailed over it. The moment the horse touched the ground he turned it to face the backs of the humans. Raising his sword, Ryszard ripped into them. They were easy from behind.

Meanwhile the two figures continued to fight with swords. Seeing a flash of blue eyes, he realized Taug had sprung from the battlements. The other figure was Trennen. The whelp had grown teeth—he fought both with sword and claw, dragging in and stabbing, the blood quickly covering his lean features.

At last the line gave a final death rattle and broke, scattering and dying.

Seeing the change, the vampires on foot pushed harder, doing everything to drive the other lines back. Finally they shattered.

"Retreat!" came a voice from somewhere in the middle of the humans.

They spun and run, not towards the bridge but to the river, throwing themselves in like rats from a burning ship. They were just as good as rats.

Archers finished many of them, but those that survived still carried on, ripping off armor and weapons as they went. Ryszard raced across the bridge, the horse giving an exhausted groan in protest. Damned animal.

A weight came down behind him, and he saw through the corner of his eyes that it was the bastard vampire. She almost felled the horse, as it scrambled to regain its footing.

"Get off me you crazy bitch," he snarled.

Her fury matched his own.

Pointing with her sword, she growled, "I want to kill that one."

Ryszard saw nothing out of the ordinary about the fleeing man, besides a helm with a steel antler on one side.

He drew up to the rebel, who was tiring fast and had thrown his sword down. Taugl braced behind him, her sword arm outstretched. Ryszard decapitated him.

"You bastard!"

He rammed an elbow into her sternum, driving her off of the horse. Slowing the courser, he allowed a smile.

"I don't take to being ridden."

With that he went to oversee the rest of his army.

As the Thrones fled, the predatory instinct of the vampires was checked. Instead of killing them from behind, they began to capture them. From wolves to raiders. Nachtholm's pantries needing restoring. Ryszard returned to the gate.

Some made it to the lake. Some even survived the hurled spears and swords and arrows. But their numbers were few. Perhaps they would find Sandulf and tell him who ruled Nachtholm.

He noticed Trennen close by, his sword and hands dripping with gore.

"You fought well," Ryszard growled. It was the highest compliment he was capable of giving to that whelp.

The vampire gazed up at him, and then returned to the chaos. Ryszard would not stand for that. The horse was spent but he asked it for one more burst of speed. Even animals knew not to defy their vampire lords. It sprang forward, sending the reed-thin vampire sprawling. He deserved it, if he could not even leap out of the way quickly enough.

"Address your superior next time," was all the older vampire said.

Finally, Ryszard could return in victory.

* * *

Zephon sat upon Gevurah at the head of his legion, reveling in the sensation of an army at his back. He disliked leading from the front during a battle unless it was necessary, but leading_ to_ a battle was glorious. Before him stretched the Silenced Cathedral, its spires rising high and the stonework aged and cracked. It was a relic from another time when the world had more respect for asceticism and quietude. It had been forgotten, but no longer. No one cared about those who would not speak.

The vampire Ceiro also rode beside him, with a lavish green cloak that trailed over his horse's hindquarters. Zephon considered him handsome, charming, and an absolute traitor. He knew Ceiro had become smitten with a little chit from Raziel's clan. He also knew said chit was a cunning manipulator, and Ceiro all too readily gave her whatever she wanted. He forgave plenty; Alexis still lived. Treachery brooked no second chances.

"You know how to present yourself, Ceiro. Remember, diplomacy. I would avoid a battle if possible."

Ceiro nodded, though his eyes squinted. It was nearly dusk, and the younger vampires struggled with painful eyes. Readjusting his grip on the reins, the little traitor set off, picking up a canter towards the behemoth doors. Zephon did not let the fact they were wood put him at ease. It was likely several feet thick. This cathedral was as much a citadel as a place of secluded worship.

Finally the vampire reached the doors. The horse sidestepped under him. Zephon knew Ceiro was apprehensive, but he had assured him the monks would at worst be like stubborn turtles. Why, if a demon erupted from the Cathedral, the doors would take a good deal of time to open. Ceiro had not been happy at that little jest, but neither would he disobey. He was only the happiest little traitor when well out of his lord's sight. Was it murder if he never laid a hand on him? Nothing was certain, but the last religious order Turel had annoyed had put a fire-bolt in the face of his best outrider. It seemed a sensible guess.

"I bear the words of Lord-Lieutenant Zephon, Sire of the Zephonim, fifth born Lieutenant of Emperor Lord Kain, the slayer of the Sarafan, Ruler of Nosgoth, and Commander of the Vampire Legion."

_Slayer of the Sarafan?_ He could not recall Kain even mentioning the Sarafan in over half a century._ The fledgling's an orator._

"Lord Zephon demands that you relinquish your holdings. Consider it service to the empire for the exchange of retaining your lives. Heed not—"

The vampire's rich baritone cut off in a screech that shuddered into a gurgle. The water pouring from above had completely enveloped him, and now it burned him alive. He began to claw at the air, writhing in agony. The beautifully-tailored, drenched cloak now clung like an acidic second skin. His horse bolted, leaving him in a melting pile at the gates of the Silenced Cathedral.

_I take that as a no._

Zephon twisted his heels against Gevurah and the horse spun on its haunches to face his legion. The grin on his face sobered before any could see. When he spoke, his voice was a torrent of wrath.

"This is how humans answer our generosity? We offer peace and they reject it. There can be no stopping—only steel and blood."

It was unnecessary to inspire his legion to carnage, but now it had his blessing. One less traitor, and a legion of vampires hungry for blood.

His highest in commands saw him plainly, but they were loyal and cold enough to understand. Zephon was impatient to take the fortress, but armed with enough surety that he could seize it without too much trouble.

Though Lord Kain spoke little of his time before raising them as his lieutenants, Zephon knew of his exploits. He wondered if the Emperor of Nosgoth had felt anything similar when he walked into Avernus.


	10. The Gate

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 10: The Gate**

* * *

She stumbled over the cobblestones, the old shawl around her shoulders covering a torn dressing gown. Galvira shuddered against the cold, though the night air was not particularly frigid. It was the fear clawing at her throat that gave the night longer teeth. _Teeth_, good gods, how she feared teeth, especially those flashing fangs that glittered against candlelight.

The creatures were not so vigilant in their watch, likely still in celebration over their bloody victory the day before.

_Gods, Alaric_—she had seen him cut down and heard the snap of something never supposed to break. Then the talons had grabbed her up, hauling her against an armored chest where a wretched heart beat for stolen blood. She rubbed her throat, forcing the weepy knot to unwind. Tears would do nothing anymore.

The vampire had dragged her to a room but had never ordered her to stay. He merely left, and she waited, cowering like a kicked dog. There was nothing sharp either, though her foggy memory only recalled shivering on the bed, nauseous and cold. When he returned…tears stung her eyes, but her teeth gnawed at her lip until they faded.

The vampire—he had not given a name—had not killed her. But then she had given him no reason to.

Women in Nosgoth generally had two mentalities. Some raged to fight, to hit and scream until there was no more air to breathe. Of course a vampire could overpower any kind of refusal, but it would not be a song freely given, and there was some honor in that.

Others protested certain death. Give in. Go away inside—do nothing and lessen injury. That way, there was a chance of survival, of escaping and exacting vengeance. Honor could be restored. If life was not placed higher, how could humanity survive? Some survive by yielding. Her mother stressed that.

Galvira had yielded, lying there as the vampire threw himself upon her. Biting back screams, prying her eyes shut, forcing her mind elsewhere. It was a rough coupling but she survived and he left again.

When it was quiet she crept out, finding no one to stop her. Human slaves had given her a passing glance. Shame filled her when she first thought to beg for help, then remembered they were the caitiffs who served her captors. Traitors, all of them.

Alaric had shown her a map of Nachtholm once. He refused to go to bed until he understood the city's defenses, so she had kissed his neck and looked over his shoulder. Nachtholm had two gates on opposite walls.

Guards stood at the first gate, but none watched the other gate, the same one Alaric's men had battered. She had no idea if she could even move such a gate but she had to see. Slaves sometimes moved through the streets and so she stole their hurried gait and downcast eyes.

It loomed in front of her, broken and impassable. The frame buckled and sagged. Hinges jutted like broken bones. Galvira's throat tightened at the sight. She moved closer. The wood and metal were rough against her hands but gave no handholds. There was a gap between the gate and frame—had she still been a child, perhaps she could have squeezed through.

_"Galvira?"_

The voice was a whisper, startled and pleading. Impossible to mistake. She should never have heard it again. But here it was, and nothing could hold back her tears.

A hand went through the gap between frame and gate, taking hers with knuckles skinned raw. He had a lantern at his feet and the flickering light caught his eyes as wide and bloodshot. His forehead was darkened with a bruise.

"You fell," she whispered.

His smile was anguished. "I did. My arm's broken. Most of my men are dead. Sandulf will have me flayed. But I'm alive, as are you."

She looked at him, separated by such a small, impassable barrier. "How did this happen?"

When he spoke, she heard the pain from his injuries. "I didn't expect them to follow us. They hadn't ever before. Those two bastards who arrived must have taken command." He licked at a dark cut across his lip, bearing more weight than he had ever known. "I'm sorry."

A consoling reply could not seem to form in her throat.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Of all the questions he could ask. But she would not hurt him more. "No, not in any lasting way." He could not see her other hand, and the twin punctures above her wrist.

They had known each other long before marriage, through summers and winters and peace and blood, though peace was a chimera in Nosgoth. He saw plainly through her answer, and his eyes narrowed in rage.

"I will kill them all. The moment I storm this city—"

"Another attack? You haven't an army anymore."

"No, but those left are more vengeful than ever. I will find a way, if I have to dig under the walls themselves." His thoughts sputtered as his voice worked to follow. "You..you're inside. Something can come of this."

But Galvira was hardly listening. Instead she heard the sound of boots, a deft, inhuman stride coming closer. More than one. Fear clamped on her throat once more, but not only for herself.

"Hush!" she hissed. "They're coming. Get out of here!"

His bruised face twisted in horror, but not for his own fate.

"Oh gods—"

She pressed a hand to his mouth to silence him. He had sense enough to cover the lantern. She guessed he had come to the gate for the same reason as she, and they both found it immovable.

"Is that your doxy?" The voice was coming closer.

"Leave now." Her voice was as low as she could make it.

He sounded utterly broken. "Galvira…"

"Goodbye, Alaric."

With cruelty she backed away, and with every bit of selflessness in her she turned and approached the two vampires.

"I am here, my lord." She bowed her neck.

The other vampire let out a snorting laugh. "So Erato is a lord now? My my, pretty thing. Desperate to avoid a stay in the pantry?"

_Erato. I will remember that name so that my husband can kill you._

Her captor Erato grinned as well, fangs glittering. "You came to find me, I will assume. My watch is over, dearie, fortunately for us."

If the vampire wondered why she was there, he did not appear to care. It was not as if she could leave the city. He slid an arm around her waist, her head barely reaching his chest. At least he was not the brute who struck down Alaric.

The other vampire regarded them with a stare that had less jest than before.

"You are selfish. Is it impossible to share?"

_Oh gods. One is bad enough, but to be passed around…_she wanted to fly away, even if her wings would fall off once she was high in the air. But in mewling desperation she pressed closer to the vampire. One hellspawn was better than two.

Survival and honor could never exist side by side. Sandulf said that often. A year before, she would have thought it only another of his cruelties but now she understood. Had Sandulf been here, he would have ordered her to slit her own throat. His niece, brother, and sister had all been turned into vampires—his niece had been killed, by her own son no less, but Isana remained with the Zephonim, along with Ghislain, their brother. That had driven Sandulf half-mad, so Alaric said.

A voice dragged her out of her thoughts.

"She appears to have chosen me." Erato smirked. "But fear not, we captured some fine young men, slender and delicate despite being soldiers."

With a sharp laugh the other vampire departed. Loosening his grip only slightly, the vampire and human started back towards the castle.

* * *

Ryszard sauntered down the hall, determined to find a holding with more iron and steel. Nachtholm lacked metal. Horses were lame, arrows needed barbs. The city had no steward but there was a wiry one by the name of Dedwen who had a fondness for figures.

He had no grace in economy or politics, but from time to time he respected the trait in others. No holding could last without ones who battled wealth instead of steel. The only figures Ryszard saw were the vampire Erato and his human prize. His jaw tightened. Too common such a prize became an obsession, with the vampire enthralled by human weakness and mortality. That was how bastards and betrayals were born. But she was a spoil of war, and the only one of her kind here. The wench would not last long.

It was only by chance he passed the room of Alexis. The vampire still lived but not in any condition to be considered living, but for the refusal to fully die. As he passed a voice rasped from the interior.

"Ryszard, join me."

He had died once and had no want of repeating the experience—the voice sounded like the Reaper's. But as he stopped and opened the door, he saw the vampire was no longer writhing in agony. Instead Alexis had moved into the high-backed leather chair by the window. His hands clutched the chair's arms, spindly and weak as death.

"Come in." His voice was that of a lyrical ghost, barely substantial but carrying a faint timbre of its former richness.

"I thought you were mad and raving," Ryszard said as he entered further into the room. It smelled of decay.

The other vampire looked at him with red-splattered eyes, still not focusing. "I have no strength left to summon delusions. In my last moments I am as lucid as I ever was. A pity." He coughed then, though Ryszard suspected it was a dry laugh. "Does Lord Zephon still loathe me?"

Ryszard would never lie in kindness. "He did not want you here any longer."

Alexis's face was ashen. The waist-length hair that Ryszard thought ridiculous to take into battle was a mess of knots and dried blood. Alexis had always spoken, walked, and fought with beauty. An absurd princely beauty more suited for a fairytale than cold reality.

Now his skin looked like corrupted wax, about to drip off at any minute. His razor-sharp cheekbones made his eyes look sunken, eyes that glittered like a mounted deer head.

The vampire sighed, his head creaking back on a fragile neck. "I knew it was a trap. I did not care."

"You put your loyalty to your kin above your loyalty to your commander," Ryszard snapped, the anger years buried finally remembered. "And you plunged ahead against orders."

The latter was the worst of it. His sire was a skilled strategist, but had lost his head when the battlefield looked simply. Zephon punished those who disregarded orders with all the fury he still carried over his own punishment.

"I had to go back for them." Alexis had never begged pardon for that. "How is Taugaral?"

"Your bastard? She survives."

"I did not know she would be saddled with this garrison. I spent years trying to keep her safe."

"Fate impales."

"It should have gone to Sothoth."

Ryszard had no reason to curb the growl in his voice. "He died dragging you away from the Thrones. Gods know how you seduce entire garrisons."

"Is compassion our fatal flaw?"

"Compassion is a fatal weakness."

Alexis coughed, the sound rattling paper. Ryszard continued to glare. Alexis had every chance to beg penance from their sire. What right did he have to righteously suffer upon his pride, when his talent could have furthered the clan?

"It is not your ideas, absurd as they are, that anger him, but your refusal to see his as right," Ryszard said. "You sit in your castle, armored in your ideals, and therefore you see Zephon as wrong. You refused to follow orders. That he cannot forgive."

The other vampire closed his eyes. When he spoke, he sounded wistful.

"I was made before you, but we were never far from each other. You may hate me now but those were good years." His eyes opened and despite their glassy pain, there was focus. "I hurt, terribly so. Nosgoth has nothing more for me. Would you end it?"

"I would not deny you a clean death." Indeed, it was perhaps the only kindness he ever gave.

"Take the papers in this." Alexis gestured, with claws long and cracked from disuse, towards a lectern on a desk. "Perhaps it will provide something useful—a gift in my exile."

"You were never exiled," Ryszard said slowly.

"You know as well as I do the truth of that." With a relieved sigh, Alexis exposed his throat.

As weak as he was, a sword thrust would be enough. "No sense in losing your pretty head."

"Ha," he said as a corpse would. "Taug can have anything of mine that she wants. And don't apologize to Zephon on my behalf. I have no regrets, besides dying. That and saving them. Not because I went back, but that the others died."

"When have I ever apologized for someone?" _Have I ever denied a hate?_ If Ryszard lied, it was with silence.

Alexis gave a fleeting, pained smile, teeth stained dark with his own blood.

He ran the vampire through. Besides a rattling gasp, there was no resistance. Alexis slumped over the sword, his heartbeat a flutter before stopping completely. There was hardly any blood on the blade. After wiping it with a nearby curtain, he sheathed the sword. Proud, idiotic Alexis was no more.

Ryszard could not hate him. He could make a battle uphill sound like a friendly joust. When he laughed during a fight, it was joyous, not dark, and he could remember every brave act of any under his command. Zephon had admired him for a time, until his care crippled him. Until it made him a soft fool who got others killed.

The lectern remained. Ryszard snapped its lock and found the papers within. Tucking them inside his shirt, he left the room. Nachtholm still needed iron.

* * *

The saboteur returned, bursting into the tent without announcement. Seated next to the tent's one lantern, Zephon jerked up from Rahab's map.

Frejke went to his knees, panting for breath. The exaggerated show of subservience curbed his irritation somewhat.

"Are we practicing theatrics?" Zephon said crossly.

The spy was shadowed, his rough breathing filling the space. "I found the library, on the second floor."

Zephon nodded, noting he would have to tell his legion to go gently at the second floor. The tangy scent cut off his thoughts.

"Why do you smell so bloody?"

It took Frejke a moment to answer, though his voice was cool and composed.

"One of them saw me," he said. "I don't know how. It was when I found the front doors. But then, one of them saw. I heard it speak—'_Ich fordere Sie auf, Baqir_.' A—a creature appeared. A horned, red thing. I ran like a tidal wave was after me, forgive me sire."

Zephon's eyes were narrowed. _I thought these were the _silent _monks? Goddamn Rahab. _

"It is fine," he offered. "Let arrogant fools like Raziel stay to get their arms bitten off." He tried to reassure him, as the scent of blood grew stronger.

"As I dived for the sewer exit, its claws nicked me. I missed the water by a hand width."

Frejke had found a way into the cathedral, through an old sewer. It was a tunnel with water at the bottom, but Frejke was small and lithe and managed to keep above it, his arms and legs braced on each side of the passage. Zephon liked him. His raw steel never broke.

"You've done all I asked. If you had to, could you draw me a rough design of the interior?"

A pain-laced nod. "I did not see all of it—but a large part, yes."

"And…" Zephon knew it was a severe order. "If you healed some, could you open it from the inside?"

Frejke's eyes widened despite himself, but he never defied an order. His head dipped lower as he coughed a yes.

Zephon saw the blood on the floor. There was more of it, pooling around the vampire like a widening sea.

"You did more than nick yourself."

His eyes could cut through the dark, but the lantern beside him had shadowed the saboteur. He stepped closer to see the vampire's wound.

_Perfect._ It was as much of a nick as Baldur's halberd was just a poke. It was jagged and wide, starting at Frejke's shoulder blade, ripping through the leather armor, and ending above his hips. No wonder he bowed—it stifled the blood flow, just a little.

He had brought along enough slaves to service him. With enough blood, the little spy should recover just enough to reenter the cathedral. There was no time to starve the priests out. Time spent building a ram could be better used returning his army to Aztiluth.

Zephon called for Lishta.

Within a few moments the healer came through the tent, neck bowed in greeting. Mahogany hair fell well past her shoulders but was kept back in a plait. Her hair had not darkened much when she was turned, an odd occurrence but not a complete rarity.

Lishta's eyes raked over the injured vampire. Frejke regarded her with a trace of alarm. All his vampires did. Lishta's talent in healing was matched only by her skill in torture.

"He needs to be as sound as possible by tomorrow night. Can you do that?"

"What happened to him?" He liked that she never gave a blind answer.

Blood alone could heal most wounds. Lishta made them heal faster. She was already on her knees, running a claw alongside the gash.

"He got nicked," Zephon offered.


	11. The Attack

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 11: The Attack**

* * *

When he sent Frejke to open the cathedral it was just after dusk. The saboteur would find the mechanism to move the doors, figure out how it worked, and open them for the Zephonim.

Frejke had trudged stiffly to the sewer but swore he was able. He also was haggard, ginger in his movements, and struck the slave helping him into his leather armor.

With the vampire gone, Zephon gave word to his army. Human armies took far too long to mobilize. Finally he donned his armor. Rather, he called Lishta to do it for him.

His armor was designed by the Serioli, who claimed it would last centuries if properly cared for. They lived well and kept to themselves on a small stretch of land. The gods bless them for their craftsmanship—it kept them alive. There was always the thought that if they became vampires they would forget how to forge with the same talent.

The armor was plate, with a cuirass, greaves, gorget, and gauntlets. Small horns capped the shoulders, the only real ornamentation. The gauntlets allowed his claws past the metal. Having oneself disarmed was fatal for a human on the battlefield; for a vampire that could also hold true, but claws worked in strained circumstances. Helms were more trouble than protection, as they mangled his ears and hearing.

The metal had a green tinge. Zephon believed that a suitably artistic touch, one not shared by his previous suit. The first had met an unfortunate end, but he did not like to think of that.

"Thank you, Lishta," he said, shifting his shoulders until everything settled into place.

She had done well for Frejke. He could not fully recover by tonight, but her stitches kept him together and blood improved his color. Practice for after the fight, she had claimed.

"Always, my lord," she answered. "But you should know, the humans we have would not feed us all if there are heavily wounded."

He smiled. "I will send for more if the priests are too gamey. We are only fighting old men and a few fell beasts."

"As you say." Lishta returned to her tools, a leather case carrying all manner of knives and pincers. Her instruments of torture differed not from those of healing.

He left the pavilion to find his horse.

Gevurah had been fed and saddled and now rocked from side to side. Zephon would have to remedy that. It was a harmful vice in horses, though the habit had gone unnoticed because it would not hurt the stallion in his vampirism. _That says wonders for our species. _

He mounted his steadfast friend, vices and all. Around him the vampires mobilized, putting on armor and grabbing weapons. Not all of them were heavily armored, as wounds on a vampire rarely took septic.

There was no need for a speech. They knew the plan and morale was high. It was only a group of old men after all. The demons could be killed, requiring only more ferocity and a disregard for height differences.

The lines formed in front of the cathedral, Zephon guiding the horse behind the infantry. The few on horses formed a vanguard around him. He had called the small army from any nearby hold, with the largest portion from Atziluth. Kain was _not_ going to be pleased.

Moments trawled on. Frejke should be done soon. The Silenced Cathedral had a short span of wide stairs leading to the doors.

The door remained closed. Another moment. Zephon stirred in the saddle. Frejke was nothing if not precise. Neither was he slow, the kind to be caught by the same trick a second time. He _had_ moved stiffly…

If he did not return, Zephon could send another. But he was no ridiculous warlord who sent his weaklings first.

A grinding crank. Straightening, he looked to the saintly fortress. Its giant doors seemed to shudder and the wood groaned. With infinite slowness they begun to open, widening a black abyss that dared them to enter. Frejke was not there.

Whatever fate had befallen the vampire, whether death or merely retreating back into the sewers, there was no waiting. He gave the order to charge.

The frontlines went first, plunging into the darkness. Soon Zephon raced too, sword out and wind stinging his face. A shattering crack sounded above him as he neared the stairs. At his angle it was almost difficult to see Frejke smashing through the glass window in an eruption of light. It was not difficult to see that the vampire was a plummeting fireball.

Zephon had other priorities. Lishta would attend to the fallen. The vampire would not be easy to miss.

Gevurah bounded up the steps, hooves clanging against stone. As the stallion's forelegs passed the threshold, light burst from within the cathedral, illuminating for a brief moment a small line of robed men, and the burning vampires before them. It was a single large hall, if a small battlefield, flanked with staircases. But he did not have so many men.

Numbers brought down the first priests by the time he reached them. It was the voice that warned him. A man with iron-streaked red hair sprang away from his horse and glared at the Lieutenant in quivering spite.

"_Ich fordere Sie auf, Hashim,"_ the man intoned.

From behind him came a light that was not fire. Against the cries and shouts of battle it seemed to pulse. Zephon could hardly be called shocked when a demon sprang through the portal. _Demon-possessed priests indeed, Rahab. _

His saboteur did not exaggerate. The demon was closer to brown than red, but its horns spiraled up and curved, like some sadistic cross of bull and unicorn. It moved on two legs, its haunches rippling with muscle beneath scales and flesh. Its claws were free to rend—they were long, cracked from use, but sharp and heavy.

Other demons bled into the hall, roaring and snapping, some on two legs and others on four. Zephon knew he had to strike, and make a good show of it too. The surprise of the vampires would be followed by fear, then a rout, if he did not prove they could bleed.

The demon in front of him charged, its claws driving sparks from the stone floor. Zephon trusted Gevurah to maneuver. The horse had a sound mind in battle, beyond even the talented warhorses that fought as much as their riders. Gevurah circled the demon, swinging just out of reach of its talons.

They got him anyway.

Pain flared in his arm as the claws screeched against metal. The armor held up, scratched though it was, but the force bruised him and he struggled to keep his seat. Its claws extended in mid-swipe, adding to its reach. It made more sense than Frejke being too slow.

He twisted Gevurah around and made a rash, ridiculous decision that would hardly work in other circumstances. The demon was too tall to sweep around it and kill it from behind. As the demon wheeled to face the horse and rider, Zephon charged. Somewhat.

Gevurah sprang a stride from the towering behemoth. His front hooves connected, all of the horse's weight colliding with the creature's chest. The combined weight of a destrier and vampire left no room for arguments. His warhorse scrambled to keep his feet, trampling the thing as it moved on. Zephon severed its windpipe and arteries. It might have been an alien creature but it still needed to breathe.

He looked for the priest, who had flattened himself against a wall.

"_Ich fordere S—"_ Zephon cleaved his face in half.

The empire always needed more slaves but slaves that could summon demons on a whim were no use to anyone. Unless he cut their tongues out. That was a thought, but too time-consuming at the moment. If there were any survivors, he might experiment.

Gevurah turned on his haunches toward the heaviest fighting. Demons were everywhere. He could see vampire corpses sprawled on the ground, gutted or crushed. A fledgling hurtled through the air, smashing headfirst into the wall. From the brains that painted the stone, he would not be getting up.

There were always casualties in war. He twisted his grip on his sword and fought on.

* * *

They had agreed to meet here. Galvira knew the vampires would not be vigilant—the brute who had assumed command was not an idle leader. He forced them to train, in the midday sun no less. She had watched from an oriel window, perplexed to see the drills resembled the ones Sandulf beat into his men. If she remembered true, the creatures would be training for a long while yet.

When she arrived at the gate he was already there. She walked faster—if she could see him, so could any passing vampire. Or human. They were groveling dogs for their masters.

"If I can see you, you're in danger," she said once she was by the gate.

His arm hung in a sling, a crooked stick serving as a splint. The flesh on his face that was not bruised was pale. His arm had to be hurting, poor darling. Worst of all she could not embrace him. Even so, the emotion from their first encounter was gone—she saw it in his eyes. The set of his jaw carried all the dour determination of a captain, not a husband.

"How many vampires are there now? What is happening?" he asked.

Did he think she spent every moment a devoted spy?

"Forty or fifty I would think" she said, not knowing anything that could deny her guess. "But that new commander trains them now—the one who hurt you."

"Alexis is dead, then?"

"He died two days ago," she said. "I think the other killed him to usurp command. There is a vampire who fought him over it—"

"Her name?" For the first time his voice caught.

Galvira reached through the gap and took his good hand. "It is not Isana, though I know nothing more."

"I had hoped we killed more of the hellspawn."

"How many of us survived?" She knew some of them were trapped in the blood pantry. Their screams ransacked her dreams, even if she could not hear them.

"A little less than thirty…of those that can fight, less than twenty."

Hope died within her. "You expect to take Nachtholm with twenty men?" She hated what she had to ask. "Would Sandulf help us?"

Alaric laughed bitterly. "Ask him before or after his warhounds eat me? No, we can get no help from him."

"But he's your uncle." she said, cursing as her voice cracked.

His grip on her hand tightened. "My mother is dead, my grandmother a vampire whore, and my uncle a crazed warlord. A filial tie means little. No, there can be no help from Sandulf. If I take Nachtholm he might decide not to punish me…but that is all I hope for."

The chances of her escape were dwindling by the hour. It took a moment before she could ask if he had a plan.

There was a storm in his eyes. "No," he admitted. "Obviously I cannot take Nachtholm with twenty men, not in any conventional way. Digging under is impossible because of the foundation. We could try to break down a gate but it would take too long—my men would be full of arrows before the gate even cracked."

"You cannot go through the other gate anyway. They keep half a dozen of the creatures around it."

"It would have to be this one then. But there would be no time unless—" The hopelessness and rage storming in his eyes flickered, replaced by a decisive gleam. "You can cause a diversion of some sort. We would plan it, and my men could break down the gate."

"But what would we do?"

"I don't know what goes on inside of Nachtholm."

Galvira stiffened. The sound of commands and marching and sparring had ceased.

"_Dismissed!_" came the gravelly roar.

Erato would be returning to his room, most likely. Alaric heard it too and after seeing her react, guessed the rest.

"I will kill them, Galvira." The general spoke more strongly than the husband, even if they were hollow to her ears. Sometimes she wondered how much of Sandulf he had in him.

This time he did not fight to stay with her. Turning to leave, he left her with fleeting words. "Nachtholm has slaves, does it not?" His tongue carried his distaste for the wretches.

"Yes," she whispered. She saw no more of him.

Walking back, a vague idea came to her. A possible diversion, though it would mean speaking with the slaves. Alaric had always been strong for her—now she could do her part. But first to see to her captor. Her hope might have returned, but it was a miserable thing for the time being. With a shuddering breath she returned to the castle.

It was bare seconds after she got inside the room that Erato returned, though not as the swaggering creature of disgusting bravado from before. He staggered, favoring one side, tossed away his sword and all but collapsed on the bed. Of course, she remained as far from the bed as possible, as the vampire buried his head in the pillows. Yet Galvira was not to go unnoticed.

"That bastard had us baking in the sun for five hours!" His voice was muffled. "Gesar had steam rising from his cuirass."

Galvira might have laughed, but only if it were a story she read before sleep. Vampires mewled like kittens in the sun. She remembered the fledgling in Sandulf's training yard, the iron collar scouring its neck as it fought and screeched against the chain tethering it to the stake.

Late midday, a while after training. That would be the time to attack.

"Ryszard's not all bad," the vampire rambled on. "Saved the garrison from Lord Zephon as much as the Thrones. Don't think he murdered Alexis more than put him out of his misery. Crazy bastard did every drill with us and barely looked warm."

Whatever had brought on this maundering? She stayed in the stiff chair, knees tucked to her chest. Best to stay quiet and forgotten.

"If you're hungry go down to the kitchens."

The vampire soon fell asleep. He did not breathe and she knew his heart did not beat. He was not a sleeping wolf but a dead one. No corpse had ever chilled her half so much.

His sword had clattered into a corner. After a moment's thought she left it there. It would do her no good now to put it to her neck or his.

Seeing as she had his _blessing_, she left to find the servants.


	12. The Sarcophagus

**Chapter 12: The Sarcophagus**

* * *

_"Why?_"

Galvira had told herself they would be like this, but still her eyes were rabbit-wide.

Chaya was a bony woman, arms tight with sinew earned from cleaning armor and scrubbing floors. She had a terse mouth and sharp dark eyes, deferent to the vampires but whip-like to any with human blood. She was a slave, a tool of her undead masters, and forced to work into an early grave. At least Galvira thought so. Seeing her expression, Chaya's lip curled.

"You heard me, duchess." She had coined the ridiculous name. "Don't think we live in holes. That army is dead."

Chaya sat at the scuffed kitchen table, propping her chin up with an elbow. Other slaves shared the table, quiet before their apparent majordomo.

_I think you live deeper._ A lesser woman might have taken her arm, begging like a dog. Thicker blood ran in Galvira's veins.

"My husband has men but they cannot take this city alone," she said, voice steady. "But if you helped me, it would fall to us."

"To _you_. Why would we want that?"

"Because you're—"

"Human?" Chaya cut in, eyes hooded and contemptuous. "I hardly think your lover considers that. Is that not how your kind deals with us now? Kill on sight, when you cannot find our masters."

_Slaves!_ She was wrong, though not entirely. Slaves were the closest the vampires had to a supply line. Get rid of them and the vampires suffered. When Sandulf received word they resisted orders to turn on their masters, he deemed them traitors and executed them accordingly. They were indoctrinated by the vampires. Betrayers of their own kind. What if the vampires took to using them as _spies_?

"My husband is not Lord Sandulf. He would repay your aid." She was reasonably sure that was the truth.

A wet, bitter chuckle came from deep in Chaya's throat. "We have served the vampires from birth. Why would we dream of anything different? Your little war? My mother saw the same thing."

"But you serve _vampires_."

"So? They fought for what they wanted, just as the old kings did. One struck me only once, years ago, for a clumsy mistake. They leave us to our own, provided we serve." Her dark gaze glimmered. "Is it so terrible to serve indifferent masters?"

Disgust. It was all she felt for this woman. But she had to try, for Alaric.

"A butcher has no grudge against the pigs he slaughter," she countered. "They drink the blood of your kinsmen."

Chaya's coldness never wavered. "They have never tasted mine. Not Aliyah's, not Roth's. That woman Taugaral even defended us when the pantries ran low." But then her shoulders stiffened, and a cord in her neck grew tight. "Why do you fight at all? You lounge around all day, your only service the pleasuring of a single vampire, all while we work to keep this castle in order."

Galvira grew up at court. She knew jealousy in its many petty faces. Even in a war, petty feuds persisted. In the dim light, the slave's yellowed teeth gleamed.

"You're a pet, nothing more," Chaya said softly. "You'll come to crave him, just as he tires of you."

Had someone slit Galvira's throat right then, her murderer would be scalded by boiling blood. They were _sick_.

"Enough, Chaya," a voice broke in.

The male slave was taller than Chaya, with shoulders that would have been wider had he known a better-fed life. He sat in the furthest chair, half in shadow. He received a sharp laugh.

"Shut up, Roth. If you want to be a knight, escort the duchess back to her room." The slave looked at her once more. "She'll only get us killed."

Whatever spine the man might have cowed under the harpy. Murmurs of agreement came from most of those seated. Roth moved from his shadowed corner and stepped beside Galvira.

"Come along, lady." He took her shoulder. She was dressed in more than a nightgown now—she had graduated to a plain blue dress fit for a servant. All the same, she jerked away from the hand.

"Don't touch me." At least one person here would heed her wish.

His russet eyes looked pitying. _How dare he?_ His other hand rose but he merely held them in truce.

Though it would be a mistake to say here, the harpy was correct on one thing. Humans would retake Nosgoth, and servants would remain servants. Equality could not exist in a world like Nosgoth. But it was better than slavery, of serving monsters. Even if these cowardly fools saw demons as benevolent masters.

She missed her handmaiden. Verth was old but sturdy. Her hands could work out any knot or ache—Alaric had loved her too. But Verth was dead. After she hurled the open cask of water at one of the vampires, his brother cut her from hip to throat.

Galvira returned to the stairs of her own accord, the slave taking it upon himself to banish her.

"Please, lady," he whispered as he guided her to a different door, "Don't put us between your people and ours."

"_Your_ people?" she said, disbelieving.

"Would you turn hounds against the master that feeds them? We know our lot and live well for it."

"Without freedom."

He smiled crookedly, a lock of blond hair falling across one eye. "Your freedom, not mine. My grandfather was a farmer bound to his human lord. His lord killed him when his crops failed and turned his family out, just as the Zephonim came near."

The staircase was dingy and worn but she made her way well enough, arms crossed in front of her in case he tried to help.

"Please lady, say at least you understand. My aunt may have a blunt way of putting things but she speaks sense. She keeps us together and the vampires content." He drew closer as the path narrowed, making her hug the damp wall. "In turn they let us do as we please. Even when the blood pantries were low they never bit us. See some reason."

_No._ She would never see the _reason_ of these cowards. And she _needed_ them. That meant somehow convincing them to take her side. Galvira was not a strategist like Sandulf or a leader like Alaric, but that was no matter. If the slaves were to be any use she would need to give a concession or two. Regardless of her sincerity.

Galvira finally stopped, turning to face the brown-eyed man and bowing her head, like a properly shamed noble.

"I understand what you say. But you cannot expect me to shrug off my life so easily." She let her voice catch. "It is a torture, becoming a vampire's bedwarmer. While my husband remains alive."

For all his soft words he heeded her not, letting a hand rest on her shoulder in consolation. His hand was callused, much like Alaric's, though her husband's came from holding swords. Roth remained silent. What could he offer—to sweep in on a stallion and carry her back to her dearly beloved?

The slave escorted her to Erato's room and took his leave.

"If you need anything, tell me." He almost sounded kind. "At least, me over Chaya," he said as he left.

Maybe the slave would be a help after all. The vampire would be returning soon—she needed to occupy her thoughts.

* * *

Zephon had little sympathy in him, and his arrogance made admiration come by rarely, but even he wished the vampire had retained his eyelids. And his nose.

Frejke had done all he asked and it left him a burned husk. Zephon thought him a casualty, until somehow Lishta brought him back. Sometimes he wondered if her secret was inflicting so much pain she scared them away from the Abyss.

"Pray you recover quickly."

An unlikely prayer to be answered, if he believed in gods. Frejke could not say anything, as his vocal chords were charred little strips. He could not hear, for he had not regained consciousness. Nor should he, until he was whole again. Zephon gave him a fleeting smile and closed the sarcophagus. It was a good find in the cathedral's undercroft. Heavy rock, devoid of light and deadening to sound. The dust-covered stones ground against each other, belabored after years of disuse.

The vampire would remain here, blood dripped into his mouth once a day, until his mangled carcass regenerated enough that he resembled something once human. But that day would come much later.

Zephon made his way up from the crypts. The cathedral lacked the catacombs of similar structures but there were many sarcophagi below. He heard no rattling ghosts, but perhaps they waited for a better moment.

The air warmed as he climbed higher, carrying a tinge of heat from the fireplaces. A vampire had no use for fire and every reason to avoid it, but it was a calming pleasure, one many vampires did not realize they missed.

Blood was still being cleaned off the floors from yesterday. He cursed Lishta for her prophecy. Their slaves were reduced to half after the battle and more would still need culling.

He had cut out a few tongues yesterday as well, but the defiled priests still spat blood in defiance. Tongues were a strange business—the knives were heated almost to a glow yet still the wounds dripped. _Bah, watery blood from watery men. _He had _tried_. This morning he had asked the only Priest of Dumah still retaining a tongue where he could find his answers.

"_I ask you with every courtesy, what do you know of glowing eyes and possession, of ancient creatures that even my emperor loathes?"_

_The priest, flabby of arm and sagging of jowl, looked back at him with eyes of watery iron._

"_Nein."_

"_Then I demand of you, tell me. If not I will cut off a hand."_

"_Nie mehr—agh!" _He had not expected the claw that pierced his eye.

Despite his howls of pain and slurred curses, he never answered or begged for mercy. _That_ had irritated the vampire lord. There was no need afterward to burn him.

So now Zephon had to search the library on his own. But perhaps it was better. Zephon had always preferred to be alone with his obsessions.

* * *

Galvira felt the tears streaming down her face as the vampire sat across from her. Usually they had dried behind her eyes but tonight, perhaps because of earlier, they ran free.

Erato broke off his story of some fight involving a morning star. He sat in a chair close to the bed, sharpening a dagger. Often the vampire talked and sharpened or polished, content at hearing the sound of his voice. Galvira still flinched every time the steel screeched over stone.

"A poor experience with a morning star?"

Galvira shook her head, her throat burning and tight. Though his form was blurry, she saw that his expression was quizzical.

"You humans always cry," he said. "You cry at death and defeat of course, but once I saw a band of humans weeping after they thought they had eluded us. To cry for joy?" The vampire, in the smallest of motions, shook his head. "No, I think not."

Gods, would he continue this interrogation? She blinked her tears back and swiped at her face to no avail. Her face was cold and wet; the vampire had no need of a warm brazier. She hardly noticed as he set the dagger on a nearby table and one hand groped through an ornate box. Galvira remained in her own sodden misery, wondering how her husband could possibly take the city, and how he shivered in a broken tent while she lied on a bed of goose down.

"Take this. Mayhap it will stop your senseless tears."

She glanced up at something that sparkled. The vampire held out a necklace. The chain was silver, with three sapphires glittering on a silver plate emblazoned in scrollary. _A gift?_ Did she disturb him that much with a few tears? No, she had cried long and hard upon her capture and that had done nothing.

When she inched an arm out, half expecting a trick, the necklace remained, cool against her skin. At a nod from Erato she slid the clasp beneath her unkempt hair and fastened it. As if a _gift_ was what she wanted.

"Better?"

How else could she answer? She nodded. She had reason to stay alive now. It would not help Alaric if the vampire…tired of her too quickly

Erato heard something she couldn't, opened the door, and leaned out.

"You! Bring me a cup of blood."

Whichever scullion he had addressed scurried off. The vampire turned and closed the door. The candlelight caught his face in shadows that made his cheekbones more pronounced and his eyes aquiline. A sharp face, cold and cruel. But when he sat on the bed and pulled her into his lap, his hands had less steel than before.

His mouth crushed hers, his lips cold, as she felt his hands slide down her sides. Fear once more bit into her heart, as she felt the shape of his fangs just beyond his lips. His quasi-civility was worse than his ferocity. Any potential kindness from a vampire was at best a lie, at worst a game.

As he thrust into her soon after, crystals of light jumped from the sapphires as the metal grew warm against her throat. Afterwards she laid there, his arms binding her against his chest as he slept. The warmth of the necklace did little to subvert the chill.


	13. The Garden

**Chapter 13: The Garden**

* * *

At night the garden glittered, a menacing black fairyland. Hedges were taller and the trees more gnarled. Had her mother not warned her about dark woods? In the dark everything was different. A rosebush was a vise of thorns. Galvira wondered what the vampire beside her saw. Surely his eyes pierced the darkness. Did he see anything other than a garden? And why now was she striding through this garden with a vampire?

A while ago he decided to visit a…friend who had drawn guard duty. At least, friend was the only facsimile she could think of. Did a wolf consider its packmates friends?

In a revolting parody, he held her arm like a courtier. But not truly—his arm was a rock and even now he walked just a heartbeat ahead. No matter the pretense, he still commanded her.

"You've been inside so long you've paled."

_Gods._ "I hardly think the night would help."

His chin jerked down to look at her. Surprised, though not angered. "Then go out during the day. Have I ever ordered you to stay in the castle?" His words held the slightest trace of a laugh, and something else too. But she had no desire to puzzle out his every nuance, merely what kept her alive.

Galvira thought of the times she crept like a rat from the keep to meet Alaric. Doubtless he would rip her throat out if he knew where she went for sun.

At her silence, he continued. "As long as you don't leave the city and are there for me, I could not care less."

_My benevolent subjugator._ "Where would I go?" she said.

"Just so." A trace of an uneven smile. "But do not think yourself a prisoner, only a—"

"Spoil?" He stopped, as did she. In part for speaking at all, and also to halt the words that might follow. Whatever his word for _absconding_, she was dragged here on horseback, a gauntlet throttling her into silence.

The vampire was silent. The approaching footsteps were not. She looked up, greasy hair falling into her eyes.

The figure that slinked into the moonlight was slender, with shoulders just wide enough to be masculine. He had an almost delicate face, and a lighter step.

"Fair night, Trennen," Erato called.

She did not recognize the vampire and the name held no feeling. He stood with a careless slouch, hands clasped behind his curved back

"You still have that—" A smile that showed his fangs, fine and needle-sharp like a cat's. "Little spoil. A pretty one, by human standards."

"Yes, and I'm rather partial to her." Erato's voice came low, hanging just behind a threat.

Trennen met the warning with a laugh. "I would never have thought the vampire who ravaged Angelika von Quarz and her daughters would become so gripped by this whore."

It was a standoff between the creatures, and all she wanted was to run, to hurl herself through thorn bushes and never look back.

The vampire stared straight at her. "Ashelia von Quarz was pretty too, a blond if I recall." Each syllable came with a taunting halt, as if he were recalling one moment among a hundred just like it.

"Shut it!" Erato snarled.

His cat-eyes widened. "Gladly."

Faster than smoke the vampire whipped forward, appearing in front of her as if by sorcery. Galvira felt a jerk at her wrist, a slipping step, then his mouth grinding against hers. With this much force she barely felt his fangs cutting her bottom lip. She did feel the blood.

* * *

Gods, when did the Order of Dumah ever have time to pray? Their stores dwarfed anything he had seen. Frejke had not reported with complete accuracy. The library _appeared_ to take up half of the second floor, but had multiple levels sprawling throughout. How many had gone blind from so much writing?

Zephon took a sip from a heavy tankard. A proper goblet was too easy to knock over, and books did not take well to blood. Gevurah had kept him in front of most harm, but his arm was bruised to the bone and his cheek sliced open. He had known worse.

The book in his lap taunted him to continue. He knew he was at the end of his rope when he was reading a book of _fairytales_. Now he wanted to know if it preexisted the Order or if the priests sat around telling fairy stories. The text continued, accompanied with oh so _pretty_ illustrations of fey creatures.

_Petur looked at the creature with eyes of pity._

"_I thought fairies had magic to heal themselves?"_

_The fey princess shook her head, her verdant bangs wet with tears. Her torn wings drooped lower._

"_Nay, human. Our magic came from the other winged ones, and they are long gone."_

"_Winged ones? Only fairies and birds and bugs and bats have wings."_

"_Nay, the winged ones from long ago, the warriors of ages past!"_

Zephon paused. Angels? Dragons? Of course they were written about, mythological tales, rooted in theology. Winged warriors though...

The Sarafan were the only source he could think of, founding their name from the angelic Seraphim. They were certainly warriors. He eased the pages back to the date of writing. That was no good. The book was written during the time of the Sarafan, not after.

Though demons prowled his mind, the winged ones snagged on something else in him. Pah, _fairytales_.

* * *

"Bastard!"

Just as the roar ended her shoulder popped in protest as the slender vampire wrenched her around until she collapsed behind him, her weight pulling her to the ground as the claws cutting into her arm held her up. The whimpers in her throat went unheeded.

"Water-brained wretch!" he yelled. "You find a treasure and spend it, not horde it. Give her to me and I'll sing your praises to Lord Zephon when that brute and I return to Ragnarok," the vampire said.

The words sounded strange to her. Stage-acted, mummer's talk. Of one saying the easiest thing to start a fight. Whatever his aim, Erato jumped at it.

"A fledgling retainer to the one that saved us?" He barked a laugh. "Why would you have a moment's notice from Zephon?"

Trennen paused. Whatever the other vampire meant had struck him in some implausible way. That was what her possessive subjugator intended. Erato sprung like a lynx, unsheathing his sword and slashing at the vampire. No one in Nosgoth went without a sword.

The thinner vampire blocked it easily with his own blade but it took his attention. A cold hand clamped down on her wrist and once more she was yanked like a leashed dog. Trennen's claws remained buried in her arm but that did not stop her captor. The talons tore through her skin as a wail tore from her throat. She had never thought she would be ripped apart by lions. Trees and thorn bushes swam through her vision and once again she could not maintain her footing. Staggering, she collided with Erato while blood poured from her arm. All too soon she yelped as he dragged her behind him, his fingers clamped on her wrist like crushing fetters.

"Shut it!" he hissed. Then he struck at the oncoming shade.

She knew the strength of vampires far outmatched even the best warriors. Even Alaric or Sandulf could not defeat one with pure muscle. But all her knowledge came from talk and the times after a battle where men would return with arms ripped off. She had seen them destroy, not fight.

Erato ducked to the side, dragging her with him. He held a rag doll. Though he seemed not to feel her weight, Galvira felt every twist and rip in her arm. Both of the vampires blurred in front of her, from speed as much as darkness. She still saw the shorter vampire's grin, delirious with glee. The night erupted with lunges and clangs.

Trennen retreated and in the same second leaped forward. Bringing his sword down, Erato went to parry the thrust. He moved too quickly. Trennen grabbed his wrist, grappling for the split second it took to smash his pommel into his face.

Galvira felt him shudder. The vampire stepped back and she scrambled to the side, terrified he was going to fall on her. He met the next slash with a dazed block. The only thing that came close to a protector in this hell was _dying_. If so, she was not waiting for the new creature to snatch her. Summoning every ounce of steel inside her, she jerked against the restraint. And met with the unyielding iron cords in his wrist

Moonlight flashed in one eye as he glanced at her. He barely deflected a slash, ripping her arm upwards as he swung her to the side so he could move. The pops erupted in her elbow and crunched in her shoulder. Her feet scrabbled on the dewy ground.

The trees continued to writhe in her vision and the world darkened further. Spots fluttered before her eyes, but she could still make out a snaking figure and her ears heard a new clang of steel.

"Stop this now!" snarled a voice that shocked her. It was female.

A strange looking vampire stood there, her blade holding down the one that's owner wanted to stick into Erato. Erato did not lower his guard.

The female vampire looked between them, a squall in her eyes howling largely at the fight's instigator.

"You brawl in gardens now? Have you two no end?"

"Two?" Trennen asked. "Why would I conspire with that wretch?"

"Your superior, Ryszard," she growled. Even at a normal timbre, her voice had a hoarse quality. Galvira could not remember her name.

"Who else?" His fanged grin had no pretense.

Looking to Erato without turning her back on the other, she asked, "_What_ happened?"

"The human is mine. He tried to take her by force."

From her expression, Galvira knew the vampire saw the fight over a human as ludicrous. Perhaps she noticed the first vampire had not spared her a glance since Erato dragged her back, if she had seen any of the fight.

"Both of you, leave now as you came. Ryszard will know of this."

Perhaps she imagined the retainer would shrink back. Instead he was already sheathing his sword, smiling in like a satisfied cat.

"Who else?" he said as he turned and disappeared into the night.

Erato growled low in his throat, and Galvira felt the muscles in his arm shaking. The pain in her arm was beginning to fade, by some miracle.

"Leave, Erato," the vampire said. "And act better when one of those bastards tries something."

"He struck first, Taug."

Her blue eyes narrowed. "Why? We have more women in the pantry."

"He's a mad bastard?" He smiled.

Galvira had seen his rare smile when he was amused. It was lopsided, giving into a small scar at his lip. His grin now was even, false even to her human eyes. The vampire Taug bade him better forethought, a strained if well-worn companionship between the two.

He rammed his sword into its scabbard and turned. Galvira did not feel the jerk as much as during the battle, but the abruptness sent her stumbling. Her noblewoman's grace was shamed tonight.

Finally Erato unshackled his iron grip. Now that she could walk, the sensation of controlling her own movement again was strange. He started walking and she followed. Tried, at least. With one arm she clutched the other and her gait bobbled, each stride sending dull stabs into her shoulder. The vampire stopped and regarded her. His gaze was cold, his face distorted with smeared blood. It still collected along his nose, trailing over his lip.

"What?" he growled.

"My arm," she whimpered before she could stop herself.

He snatched it up. Not the arm wrenched like an oft-used chain, but the one torn from four long claws. She had not wanted to look at it. The ragged gashes seeped, half congealed and half flowing. In songs blood was beautiful. Beautifully terrible and romantic—corrupted rubies, all but the blood drained by a vampire. Hers was none of these, only black that might be red in better light.

A moment's pause and he brought his mouth down upon it. She yelped, and his other hand took her upper arm. The fangs she expected did not come but his tongue was hardly more pleasant. He pulled back, still studying her skin. The blood was gone, though doubtless the wounds still had more to bleed.

Letting go, he began scratching at his own forearm. _Oh gods, is he giving it?_ Like Joachim and the blood-traitor Mirthe. Her mind had to flee somewhere, and it chose the stories from her late girlhood.

"_Will there be life after death?" Her breath gave chase to her fluttering heart, as the blood of her veins flowed from her side._

"_How would I tell? I ne'er encountered death." An arm encased in leather encircled her back, as the vampyre seducer looked on._

"_I believe not the word of priests so fully as to trust in piety." Blood trailed from her mouth, leaving a circle of blood 'round her paling neck._

"_Trust in life then, let me save you." Words of the demon betook a honeyed timbre._

"_Save me then, schwarzer Engel!"_

_And from that moment hence, Mirthe the Swan Maiden abandoned her kin, and loyalty knew her no more. For as life left her veins, she accepted the poisoned gift of the vampyre, the corrupted blood that postponed her death. To We the upholders of light, the Sarafan, she is a blood traitor. Her death can only shine as redemption to her wronged line, soiled by the severing of human fealty._ _For Joachim the vampyre, the stake is too forgiving. For corrupting Mirthe Schwanmädchen of the Lohengrin line, only the Abyss. So mote it be, of the Sarafan._

"Take it," he said, snapping her from the books and songs of her home. Like most of her companions she thought the discouraged stories were darkly romantic. Then she married, saw what vampires were, and hounded herself for ever thinking such.

Then she saw what he offered. Not blood, but his leather vambrace.

"Pull the straps as tight. His claws did not go deep—difficult to tell with the blood."

_So you say. Half-truths and games. _

She tried to buckle the vambrace, but the fingers on her left hand refused to bend. Scowling with bloody lips, he buckled it for her, piercing new holes so it could buckle tightly. Its leather scraped her ragged skin, but it would staunch the flow. The vampire's gaze was sharp.

"Your other arm?"

"Numb." A half-truth. Her fingers were numb, her shoulder burned.

"I doubt that." He took her other arm before she could flinch away and ran a hand along her shoulder. "Dislocated, you mean."

His other hand went to her shoulder. _Is he_—the grinding pop would have unroosted the birds with her howl. Hands still bracing her shoulder, he pulled her against his chest to muffle the sound. Leather pressed against her lips, cold despite his fight. The taste of oil and hide stung her sore lips—revolting. All the while the popping replayed in her ears and pain wrestled tears from her eyes.

The trees began to groan in the wind, joining with chirps and flutterings. and the crickets paused in their chirps. Erato held her there, an arm at her waist. _Probably to keep me from screaming_.

"Better?"

Her shoulder ached, but the numbness had left. When she groaned an affirmative he eased her away.

"We return then." He resumed walking, his arm still at her waist, thoughts of his friend apparently forgotten.

A few moments later they approached the doors of the keep. Just before she reached the light candlelight flickering from the higher windows, he stopped. His voice had chilled.

"That fledgling wanted a fight, nothing more. And somehow he almost had me. You say nothing, to no one." His fangs gleamed beneath his lips.

"Of course, my lord."

Galvira walked with him the rest of the way, her steps growing leaden. Pain was gripping. It made one forget all the wrongs they could never right, all the cruelties they were powerless to stop. Pain pushed one to a point where the assistance of a monster was felt as kindness. But pain always ended, and it took with it all the consoling illusions. She had grown up with Amalia von Quarz.


	14. The Messages

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 14: The Messages**

* * *

_Gods,_ Zephon thought. _A tactician, a leader of an entire legion, and sore-backed like an old warhorse._ He twisted in the chair but the stiffness remained burrowed in the small of his back. His feet were propped up on a cedar table while the chair braced on two legs. The book rested on his thighs.

Nosgothic history was a fickle creature. The most reliable sources came from the Sarafan, but of course they wrenched everything to vampire massacres and righteous wrath. Historians outside the Sarafan came rarely and died quickly. The best paths to the scholars came from notes on Sarafan-orchestrated heretical burnings. Few letters remained from the order, but those he had found were always high entertainment.

_Our archers fail us daily! The High Inquisitor refuses to heed mine warnings. Come winter, if the creature is not slain, the town will look to their lords for salvation, not the Sarafan. The days grow shorter and the creature flies too high to see. Janos Audron hides in his aerie and leaves only to feed. He may be the last but that makes no matter while he lives._

_- Inquisitor Zephon_

Zephon laughed despite his dour mood. It was a great irony, even grander than a silent order naming itself the Order of Dumah. The winged creature did not escape his notice. He looked further down the page and found a scrawled equivalent to a footnote.

_Kunst der AErlsten_

The text was written over in a slipshod attempt to change the word. _Ersten_ was first—_Art of the First Ones_. _Alten _was old—_Art of the Old Ones_. There was a special hell reserved for defacers of books. The change had been made so long ago that the inks melded. Whichever had come first he could not guess. Books dedicated solely to artwork were rare in Nosgoth. Artists preferred to sweep their statements onto murals, on towering stone walls where a patron could nod and hand over the gold.

Whoever had made the change had objected to the original word, why? As his thoughts rebounded, it seemed more logical that the word had originally been _Ersten_. "First" would raise more hackles than "old."

_Thank you, little namesake. I hope you killed that High Inquisitor and had his wife. _Some day he might look into that particular warrior, if for nothing else than a lark, but now was not the time.

He twisted to his feet. Over the last few days, the library's categorization had become clear to him, _without_ the help of that ugly priest. Soon he found the book, reeking of paint. It was a tall, thin volume, and gave no clue as to its original title—the branded script had scratches and burn marks obscuring the calligraphy.

Setting it down onto the table, he eased it open. Paint made pages fragile. The works, he soon discovered, were not original. Each preceding page of the artwork detailed the events within the painting. How _convenient_. His instincts tensed—lucky findings such as this rarely happened. Providence knew not Nosgoth.

The pages were a kaleidoscope of color, a pleasing contrast to the dull library. The first page was of a strange castle, a sprawling complex set into a mountain. Sun glittered on glass spires, reflecting in greens and pinks along the marble towers. A beautiful world…how many thousands of years ago would this have had to existed, for Nosgoth to forget such beauty? Strange, he could not place the architecture. And in the mountains, one would need wings to reach it.

On the next page stood a winged creature, swathed in a white robe with silver trim. A headdress adorned its head, with twisting metalwork arcing back and down to his shoulders. It held a sword, a blade that curved like a sickle with a hilt of bone. The arms were muscular, signifying either a warrior race or an idealistic artist. But what he noticed most was the creature's skin—freakish blue. Even the black wings folded behind its back drew scant notice compared to the flesh that gleamed against the pale robe.

_Imri Jazygia – Suttogó ember részére Isten_.

Zephon inwardly choked. The _language_! What was it? He was Zephon, who would only admit Rahab to have _possibly_ a further scholarly reach than he did…and he did not know what in nine hells the language was. Nosgoth had several languages throughout its history, with smatterings of dialect for each. This resembled none of them.

Flipping back with minimal care for the paintings, he glanced at the dream castle's caption. _Nándorfehérvár_. The construction was spiky and strange. It must have died with the race. Surely he had seen no flying blue creatures as of late.

The next page was actually two, with the painting spread across both.

_Sarika Rakoczi, Hercegnő-ból Isten, gyilkos Hakan Ertuğrul, Efendi-in Gazap_. That told him precisely nothing. Luckily, it did not need to.

Another blue creature was there. It stood in mid-lunge, wings flared like a hawk while a sword stretched forward, crunching through the breastplate of another figure. The warrior was a striking female. Armor encased her torso, thighs, and forearms. The painting held a fawning amount of detail, with rents in her armor and blood running from several cuts.

_The sword._ It had a sinuous blade, long and heavy. The blade ended in an elaborate hilt—a skull, its eyes glowing red with its own bloodlust. _The Soul Reaver?_ Was Kain's sword possibly that old? The glowing eyes fit but they were the wrong color. The Soul Reaver's eyes glowed white-blue when its blade found blood and flesh.

Then he noticed the blue creature's opponent. The other warrior was male, judging from the wide chest and narrow hips. And an entirely other race. Instead of blue, his skin was brown. A crest crowned his head instead of a headdress, and instead of wings bony protrusions sprouted from his shoulders. But his eyes! They glowed green, raging with a fire far from symbolic.

The table splintered under his claws.

At last. _Progress, beautiful progress._

"My lord?"

He jerked up and found the vampire standing near the stairway, under the arches that took the place of doors. Zephon had forgotten he summoned him.

"Send a messenger to Nachtholm. I want Ryszard here."

No matter the revelations that swum in his mind like heady smoke, cold reality was never far away. He had pulled vampires from garrisons and taken over a random cathedral, without so much as a request. He ignored orders, acted with insolence, and any other horrible deed thing Kain would accuse him of. He had a limited amount of time he could gallivant across Nosgoth.

* * *

Aliyah's expression was placid. _If she bathed more, she would be pretty_. Though she would probably lose it, her hair was flaxen and thick. Aliyah was also the only other servant besides Roth who treated her as more than a camp-side whore. The blond girl was also as vapid as a courtier's lapdog, but her hands were kind.

The girl continued applying the salve, covering the cuts with a gentle hand. She had brought wine too, a stockpile from Lord Dracosa's days. It dulled the ache in her shoulder.

"It works well," she had assured her. "My husband Roth needed it after a horse bit him."

"How fortunate," she murmured.

Sighing, Galvira settled back into the pillows, half asleep despite herself. Wine had a way of softening the world. The vampire had left for blood. She laid on his bed, the woman on a stool beside her. To take septic would be painful.

Why he even called the girl up Galvira had no idea. It was not mercy, of which vampires were incapable.

She thought of her uncle-in-law, Sandulf. Once, during a hunt for stag he encountered a boar. More than vampires wanted him dead that day, and his hounds fell upon the charging animal before he drove a sword through its neck. One broken dog collapsed, torn from flank to heart. After a moment's look, Sandulf slit its throat and ordered it buried. Another whined, its shoulder awash in blood. Taking the hound and two guards he raced back to his hunting lodge. He cleaned and bandaged it himself.

From below came a wall-shuddering slam. Her eyes jerked open just as Aliyah's startled fingers dug into her skin. Galvira squealed.

* * *

"Clever," Ryszard said, half-listening.

He sat by the fire in a high-backed chair. It angled away from the flames, facing a desk with enough drawers to stock all of Nachtholm's paper. It let him keep sight of the other vampire, Dedwen, who sat behind the behemothic desk studying a ledger. He had a head for numbers and accounts, something for which Ryszard had no patience.

"I would not say so," the vampire replied, obviously intending the opposite. "In fact, I am always amazed no one had tried it."

He continued to prattle on about earning the human's loyalty, while he worked through the ledger. Buffers and fodder, with vampires as liege lords.

Ryszard heard his words, but his mind wandered to yesteryear. A smart part of him wondered if he could have summoned Lishta, and put her talents to Alexis. He flexed his hands unconsciously, outermost fingers always stiffer than the rest. Their blood pantries were well-stocked now—she was always looking for humans to vivisect. It made those she was healing feel slightly better when she unrolled her knives.

He was not so distracted as to miss the door exploding.

The hinges squealed and the wood cracked as a figure snapped it against the wall. In stalked Taug, fangs bared and claws rigid.

"You!" she snarled at Ryszard.

Ryszard grabbed the dagger at his boot and hurled it by the blade. The other vampire ducked, eyes livid, and the dagger buried itself in a tapestry of horses. He remained seated while Dedwen froze like a fish in winter.

"Storm in again and I won't miss."

"Your retainer attacked another over a worthless human. He was going to kill him"

He could guess the other vampire and the worthless human. Did this woman's teats gush golden blood? He wondered how she was still alive.

"Who won?" he asked instead.

"I did," she replied, eyes burning.

"Even _you've_ had this human wench?" She blinked, comprehending moments too late. Dedwen ducked his head to hide a smile—Ryszard knew she scared him. Ryszard regarded her with familiar annoyance. "He wasn't following my orders. Go, now." He would have to do something about that girl though.

"No," she snapped back. "If your retainer is attacking my kin—"

"My lady," Dedwen broke in. "They are as much kin to you as a warhorse is to a mule. Cease your braying."

_How long have you been waiting to say that?_ Daren't while Alexis drew breath.

Ryszard was forgotten as Taug fixed on the wiry vampire. "Spineless _dog_."

To smash their heads together or let them fight? Dedwen relished the illusion Ryszard had any mind to defend him. He found himself favoring the latter, until he remembered he needed Dedwen to review the ledger.

"Taug." She looked at him from one eye, wary as a wolf. Wary, but always looking him in the eye. If she would stop being so _explosive_. "I will remind the fledgling of his orders. If you likewise remind Erato that Trennen is a fledgling, and to die at his hand would be embarrassing."

She snorted. He saw the tension leave her by a fraction. Never entirely—she lived as if she expected assassins to attack from the shadows.

"That is satisfactory."

"Your care reminds me of your sire," he said. "See you don't match his fate."

She didn't know how to take that and so she left, smashing the door closed with a touch less fervor that she had opened it.

"She's Alexis's bastard, you know," Dedwen ventured. "It's the only reason they follow her. Now you're here, I can write Lord Zephon about her."

He had grown _far_ too comfortable. Ryszard stood before his desk in half a heartbeat, and cracked him across the cheek. The bones stayed unbroken but the wiry vampire's neck snapped to the side. Taugaral would have lunged back, but Dedwen merely gripped the table to steady himself.

"My apologies," he said.

"You will not lie," Ryszard growled. "And you will not send Zephon a fucking _sonnet_ that does not have my leave."

Ryszard smelled the blood in his mouth, and the faint quailing of one just realizing a mistake.

He heard new footsteps, quieter than before. The knock came softly.

"Enter," he growled.

A slave entered, a tall, rawboned man who kept his eyes down.

"My lord, a messenger has arrived from Lord Zephon. He presents this to you." He held out a folded piece of parchment.

Ryszard already knew what it was. _Damn it all!_ A snarl beginning at his lips, he stormed past the flinching slave.

* * *

"Where does that blood come from?"

Erato tilted the goblet, eyeing the blood. She knew the goblet was heated, likely to keep the blood warm.

"From a soldier. Quite gamey"

She rolled her eyes. Wine made her less demure, but he did not seem to mind. It was wrong, she knew. Drink would not help her find a way to help Alaric, but her nerves were scraped raw from the fight, and the slave had almost poured it down her throat.

As she thought, he bared his fangs in a lopsided smile. "The pantries, near the kitchens. It's better from the source, but convenient."

Aliyah had left half an hour ago, back to the kitchens, near the servants' quarters. Back to her husband, Roth, the henpecked coward who presumed too much. Galvira pondered with the disjointed thoughts wine-warmed mind. Alaric had entrusted her to create a diversion. So far she had only succeeded in being wounded and made a plaything.

Erato drained the goblet. It felt dangerous even to think of Alaric when he was lying right there.

The vampire stirred beside her, making her wince as the movement jostled her arms. Erato glanced over.

"You humans so fragile." There was no malice in his expression, or even sharpness. That worried her.

He rolled onto his side and the pain increased. He was a soldier—of course he noticed it. A claw pushed her hair back from her cheek.

"To a vampire, a dislocated shoulder is an annoyance. We do not have your warmth though."

The pommel had sliced into his face and half-broken his nose. Now it was reduced to a fading discoloration and a healing cut.

She had to do something. She latched onto Alaric's demeanor, the last time she saw him. Determined, sharp, pushing down his fear and desperation. If that was how he found his strength, so would she.

* * *

Nosgoth's history was a labyrinth. But he had won. Like that myth of the Minotaur, he had marched in, snapped its neck, and stood triumphant. His prizes lay open before him.

It was history he hardly believed.

The winged creatures were a race. The tawny ones another. Like anyone else they quarreled over religion and power, and tore each other to pieces. How unsurprising that Nosgoth's earlier inhabitants were just as warlike as today's. It was afterwards where things grew interesting. And barely believable.

Instead of just raping their women and plundering their cities, the winged creatures drove the others into another dimension. The broken pillars that Kain called his throne tied into it, though Zephon could not find how. But oh ho, the losers were certainly not happy with a demon realm. They bit back, somehow infecting the winged race. How so, he could also not find. They were all dead though, an answer enough.

And then the linchpin of the mystery. The magic required for sealing away an entire race was far from an epic sweep of power. It was explosive, all-consuming, and likely destroyed half the ones who cast it. It left problems.

One of the wondrous little books open in front of him contained the notes of a warrior-priest. One day in the self-righteous man's life, he happened upon a field. The locals warned him away to no avail. After his horse threw him, he found a cave. The place crackled with energy the priest knew as _distortion_—a rift in a spell, a tangible split of possibility.

The priest felt a nameless presence that whispered untold glories and power. But the holy man was not so gullible; he ran like hell back to the village. There they told him stories. Stories of people who had wandered down there and returned altered. Primitive and snapping, mad with whatever they had seen. When three youth ventured there, they never returned.

_A gate to hell_, the priest scoffed. But he returned several weeks later with seven of his brethren. They pulled together all manner of holy righteousness and spellcraft. So he wrote, the village was safe, at the cost of three comrades. Two died in combat against something he never described. As for the third, his brothers reclaimed his soul for the gods at the expense of his corporeal form. The village was troubled no more. And most likely they all became devout followers along with the warrior-priest.

The incompetent fool seems to have missed one. Zephon's mind fought at possibilities. Was it a demon that possessed Selik, or one of the other?

What had the thing in Selik said? _"…who has given me the means to make my return." _And then its tirade at Kain. _"Das Schicksal ist nahe!" Your fate is at hand_. That would imply one of the banished race, though he could not be sure. He had thought Old Nosgothic a human language, but mayhap they had only inherited it.

Why did Kain seem to know something more? Zephon recalled every detail of the meeting. And the torture Selik must have undergone before Kain skewered him. Why torture? Kain was a wolf, not a tiger. He interrogated; he did not torture for amusement or sport, even if he never stopped his lieutenants from such.

What did you want to know?

If it was a new threat, why keep it from the legions?

He could not walk into the Sanctuary and ask. He had no intention of going anywhere near Kain until his army was back at Atziluth, which would be longer than he originally anticipated, damn the demons.

At that, Zephon grew angry. With anger, he grew bold.

His answers lied in that cave.


	15. The Pipe Organ

**Chapter 15:** The Pipe Organ

* * *

Galvira felt before she heard the pounding on the door. Jolting from sleep, she shivered at the chamber's air on her exposed skin. As cold as the form that lied beside her, also rousing from sleep. Erato extricated his arm from around her waist. She shivered again as his claws drew across her back.

"What in hell?" it was strange to hear his voice thick with sleep. It was too intimate, even if the very word was a mockery to her now.

Erato jumped to his feet and dragged on a robe. The windows were blacked out with heavy drapery but Galvira guessed it was early dawn. Aliyah's salve and gentle hands had worked; the pain in her arms had receded to a dull ache.

The door flew open the moment the vampire turned the handle. She winced at the blazing light. A hulking figure stood in the doorway—the one who now ruled the keep. His shoulders were wider than Erato's, who was far from slight.

"Why was there a duel over this human wench?" He spoke in a rasp like steel on stone.

He looked past Erato and straight at her. Like a rabbit she froze. There was no mercy in his gaze. Just like when he felled Alaric.

"Your retainer attacked me," Erato said with a false chuckle, tone dulcet and almost courtly. "I defended what was mine until Taug interceded."

"The whelp has been dealt with." The brute did not share his fictitious joviality. "We leave in an hour for Ragnarok. Finish her."

He stiffened, and when he spoke his voice sharpened. "You assume command then leave just as quickly?"

"Zephon's wishes overtake my own."

Erato stepped back. Not in retreat, she realized. In front of her. Like hound with its hackles raised. "You said I could keep her—"

Erato gagged as the vampire seized him by the throat and drove him down Galvira cringed as she heard a crunch. Erato clawed at the other vampire's arm but the brute wore a thick bracer and his reached stretched farther. His knees buckled under the strangulation. Her savage captor, utterly helpless.

The vampire released his death grip.

"I could tear her heart out and feed it to you if I wanted," he growled. "I leave that to you out of respect—you fought well when others mewled. But you _will_ kill her."

Erato barked a protest, unable to form the words in his crushed throat.

"Do you think I want to leave this pathetic excuse for a holding?" the brute raged. "The humans will be back—they smell weakness like a wolf too old to bring down a stag. Do you think I don't know what she is?" Once again he looked past the vampire, straight into her. "She was the wife of the Raginmar lord and a marital relation of Ghislain and Isana. They will not abandon another of theirs to us."

The injured vampire tried to gather his legs under him, about to rise. He coughed, his neck slowly mending.

"I leave in an hour," he spoke, suddenly dispassionate. "I will see her corpse. Otherwise I will take her with me, and with whatever infatuated affection you've bourn her, you will wish you had torn her throat out after I finish."

He left. Erato remained on his knees, a hand carefully feeling his throat.

An eternity later he snapped to his feet and slammed the door. Choking out a string of raspy curses, he drove a fist into the wood. Finally he turned to her. She heard rather than saw it—the closed door took the light with it and now her eyes were unused to the dark.

The breath caught in her throat. It was futile to run. She could not snatch his sword from six feet away and try to fend off however many decades of vampiric savagery.

Her sight began to tease out details in the dark. The light skimmed him jaw and reflected in his demon eyes.

"I am to kill you," he said. His tone was unfocused. Hesitant.

Galvira hardly thought it was any seduction on her part. But she had heard stories. Stories of vampires who became infatuated with frail mortality. It was impossibly out of their grasp and so they were transfixed. The seductive pull one's own opposite.

The court of her maiden years had been like that. There were gallant knights who fell for the untamable girls, and young, innocent girls who swooned for the swarthy warriors and tortured fighters.

She had played both parts, so many years ago. With the young lord she had enjoyed leading him on horse chases through the fields and rebuffing his gentle charms. Then she fell breathless when his great-uncle came to court. They were closer in age than one might expect, though he was still two decades older. That had made him all the more intriguing, especially with his fierce hounds always beside him. In the end she chose the young lord. Her Alaric. Beneath his charm, Sandulf had a darkness to him that was more scary than thrilling.

No matter how Alaric might rail against her, she had to live to help him. And, selfish as it was, she did not want to die. Survival and honor could never exist side by side.

Sitting back in the bed, her arms behind her, she looked at the vampire without wavering, knowing he could see her in the dark. Every nerve in her was taut as a harp string. He walked closer until his legs were against the bed—she heard the movement and could make out the contours of his right side. She tried to find something to say, but fear had her throat in a vice.

A rustle—the bed bending under his weight—then he was upon her. Shoving her to her back, one hand cupped her jaw, wrenching her face to the side.

"Scream now."

Fangs buried themselves in her neck and a cold mouth clamped down on her skin. She would have screamed anyway.

* * *

Ryszard heard the slam, the curses, and finally a shriek of pain. It gave him no joy. No one could call him _inconsistent _before now. He disliked having to come down on one of the few capable vampires in this sorry place. But it was necessary. That wench was a spark for a larger fire—he'd seen it in the vampire's eyes as he clutched his throat. Pain wiped away pretenses. Ryszard saw that protective aegis—the rare longing to preserve something weaker.

He knew Zephon was paranoid about a vampire going with the humans. That was one way such a thing could happen, as much as any vampire, even the one in question, would snarl at the possibility.

The fatigue was making him too contemplative. He hadn't slept in several days. Two weeks in Nachtholm were not enough to cauterize the weakness. It rankled him to leave the holding unfinished and wretchedly defended.

Zephon's message also disturbed him. His sire had taken a random cathedral full of demon-worshipping priests. The emperor would never have ordered the attack—it was situated in future Razielim lands. Therefore Zephon had struck out on his own. An impetuous move for one who served an emperor from whose favor he had fallen.

The events of the past two weeks left his fangs on edge. The attack at the cave, the trek to the emperor…he preferred real battles, with foes he could see and kill. Now in the silence of the keep, Ryszard was alone with himself.

He made Selik go down to that cave. He could have heeded the signs—the scared horses, the lack of any birds or vermin in the immediate area. Something had not been right and still he pushed on, because it was protocol and he relished the chance to enforce it. Alexis would have rebuked him, had his own weaknesses not gotten him killed.

"You _summoned_ me?" Taug snapped. Her lips curled in the faint snarl she always wore when they spoke. She also wore a sword, always. He agreed.

Ryszard smashed anything that could be perceived as doubt into the place he never looked.

"Zephon has ordered me to join him. I leave soon." She looked surprised but bit back the retort on her tongue. "I'm coming back," he continued. "The humans will try to retake this keep, even if we've bloodied them for now. Until then, you will command the vampires and Dedwen will act as castellan.

Taug's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why not your retainer? You were all too adamant that I'm an incompetent bastard."

"Trennen? That whelp could not command a field of ponies." He chuckled. Sincerity was difficult for him when it did not require caustic honesty. It felt like a sword he rarely touched. "You're less incompetent than the rest of this pathetic lot. And the blood pantry should is full. If a siege comes, you can ignore anything beyond ladders and rams."

For the first time he'd seen her she had a ghost of a smile. It disappeared almost before he saw it.

"You slew Alexis," she said. "I know he asked for it, so I don't blame you."

"A pity Alexis never saw you jump from the battlements onto a wall of shields," he said. He remembered the hasty shield wall and his horse they almost impaled.

But Alexis had reason to fear for her. Bastard vampires were rare in Nosgoth because they rarely survived fledgling years. Only the lieutenants expanded the ranks. She may have felt safe leading this motley crew but in any other holding she would be blessed to merely survive. Whatever the history here, the vampires apart from Dedwen supported her. Those like Dedwen never fully supported anyone.

Ryszard guessed her to be under fifty, counting her human years. He had fought beside Alexis closely before that. He would have noticed had Alexis snuck off to sire bastards.

"Zephon's forces are leagues away," he said. "You will be on your own."

She nodded. "You will be back."

For once he did not deign to counter. Her comparative softness ensured he had no reason to appoint another, nothing more. They shared their stiff goodbyes and he made his way to the keep's large entry hall. The gates to the front courtyard were already open. Eager to see him leave, he guessed.

"Ryszard!"

He turned. From the northern hall walked Erato, a form limp in his arms. The human wench. Two ragged punctures ruined her bruised neck. He heard no life.

* * *

"Sire, your brother has come."

Lishta stood at the doorway to the bedchamber he had claimed as his own. While Lishta was standing there and not lying beside him was another matter, until he remembered he had appointed her as castellan while he slept. The nature of her message drove away his remaining fatigue.

"Which one?" he groused. "I have four too many."

Her grim expression ended his humor. She had large eyes, gold flecked with gray, different from the catlike ones in so many vampires.

"Lieutenant Raziel, sire. He awaits at the entrance."

Zephon was on his feet. "You let him _in_?"

"Was I not to?" Her voice hinted at the incredulity of refusing the firstborn. "He rode up to our doors and demanded to see you. I ordered him to wait in the entry."

He was not truly mad at her. The Silenced Cathedral had no walls or gate, just two large doors that took four vampires to open without the aid of the device above. And few could have denied Raziel anything—Zephon should be used to it. It seemed his little adventure had not gone unnoticed.

"It's fine. Go check on the wounded. We are _not_ to be disturbed."

With a soft nod she departed. He knew his brother came in a rage, though his own self-righteousness kept him from retaliating against Zephon's actual clan. Raziel's fury led to blows. He would not let his clan see him as the weaker younger brother.

Not that there were many interested in their sire right now. The demons had cut a bloody swath through his fighters. Some breathed fire, the only element that had no regard for human or vampire. And his vampires were not used to fighting in cathedrals.

Zephon paced the room, his shoulders tight and neck tense. He debated between wearing armor or clothes. The latter, he decided. Armor would look make him look afraid. He pulled on breeches and a loose shirt, then a dark green leather jerkin. He did not bother to pull on boots. He felt lighter on his feet without them.

To call the Silenced Cathedral an actual cathedral was misleading. The priests had worshiped a deity of silence who seemed to want few luxuries. The only pews were at the upper part of the building, in front of a stone altar. It was pale gray and tinged with red, but rough except for where human feet had trod for centuries. It seemed the cathedral had been erected around it.

Just behind it was a set of metal piping—a massive pipe organ, but with no keys anywhere he could find. On the opposite wall was a stained glass window—colored and glazed so it blunted some of the light. The left panel was a landscape of a field in spring. Its parallel twin was similar, but brown and barren.

The massive building had a ceiling of arches, flanked by buttresses and stonework. Yet the ceiling was narrower than it should have been. There were several floors above it, holding bedchambers and the massive library.

He found his brother in a russet cloak standing before the altar. Raziel turned and drew back his hood. For a moment the early morning caught his face in a striking light, finding the strong contours of his chiseled face. Fierce, proud, and beautiful—so all said of the firstborn. His beauty lasted for barely a moment before his lips curled in a snarl and his eyes spat venom.

"_Have you lost your mind?_"

"No, but I've developed a rather passionate love affair with ecclesiastical architecture." Zephon offered him a crooked smile.

Raziel was suddenly an inch away. He had dressed as a hunter today, similar to Zephon, but with bracers and boots that went past his knees.

"You pulled two-thirds of your legion from Atziluth to conquer a cathedral!"

"Just because you do not share my religious fervor is—"

Raziel backhanded him. Zephon knew it was coming and let his neck go slack. It hurt and bruised, but it did not crack a bone. If he had evaded it or countered the blow would have been worse.

"Why?" Raziel snarled. "Did you think I would not notice? Ruthven capered around like a docile catamite, acting as if it was some stratagem you had devised."

"I planned to send them back tomorrow."

Raziel glowered. "No you're not. The smell of vampire blood reeks in this place. You cut your clan's throat."

Zephon hissed—a feral reaction he had hoped to have left behind in his fledgling years. Rage fluttered in his throat as he willed his hands to stay still. Raziel always fired true. Zephon had underestimated the cost of taking the cathedral.

Three days ago he had slain the last demon, his daggers planting themselves in the creature's eyes. Coated in gore he'd howled his victory, only to wonder why so few joined him.

To his right, Falk staggered on a shattered kneecap, while Jochen tried to keep his guts from spilling onto the floor. Two of many similar. Of course Zephon saw to them before he buried himself in the library.

The casualties were nothing anyone would condemn him for—if he had acted under orders. Which, from the look on Raziel's face, he might as well have spat on.

His brother saw he struck a nerve. "I do not know how an order of old monks took such a bloodcost to subdue. But for what?" Raziel seized him by the back of his neck, like a disobedient dog. Like he always had as a fledgling. His iron-like fingers clamped down rather than his claws, but Zephon felt them digging into his nape all the same. Pulling him close, his voice was an icy murmur. "I know it has something to do with that fledgling. But don't for an instant say you've begun a crusade in his name. Not after the blood you've spilled. It's a crusade for you, you self-righteous viper."

Zephon had crooked his neck just enough that Raziel's grip was a fraction loose. He snarled and wrenched away. A viper? He'd rather he were a spitting cobra. _Self righteous?_

"How common!" he snapped with a bitter laugh. "To loathe in others what you see in yourself!"

Raziel's fury almost made it worth it when he hit him again. But this time it was no chastising slap. The blow took him off his feet, headfirst into the pipe organ.

_Fucking hell!_ A hundred galloping horses clashed around him. He keened as the noise ricocheted inside his skull, banging between his ears. Raziel fared no better. His hands clamped over his ears and he staggered, mouth twisted in pain.

Several painful moments of eternity later the note faded into a thrum that remained in the air. From somewhere far away he heard footsteps. Looking up at near the staircases he saw a few of his clan had defied him to see what had caused the cacophony. Some trespasses he supposed were to be forgiven—they had probably thought the world was ending.

They shouldn't have sounded so far away. Nor muffled by an incessant ringing.

Raziel was staring at the organ as if it were a tidal wave. "What in hell is this place?"

"The Silenced Cathedral," Zephon breathed as he climbed to his feet, struggling to hear him over the bells.

He cursed inwardly for his clan at the balconies. They should not have seen him like that. Zephon studied the metal organ. Warily he tapped it. Even the faint touch set his teeth on edge. If it were to be struck with a hammer? What had those deluded humans created?

At least the symphonic blast seemed to have soured Raziel's desire for torment.

"Stop this obsessive defiance now," he said. "Kain is already angry. Don't make him furious. Return your uninjured to Atziluth and hope the battle goes well enough that it overshadows you indiscretion."

His brother Raziel—always a prince among the savage hoards. He readjusted his cloak. Despite Zephon's own roaring headache, he couldn't help but grin to himself when the older vampire massaged his temples, his feet the slightest bit unsteady.

"And Zephon." Raziel's eyes were hard with malice and pain. "If you ever touch anything in my territory again, I will eat your liver in front of your entire clan."


	16. The Death

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 16: The Death**

* * *

Galvira crept her way down the steps to the kitchens. She had lost so much time! But such chatterings left her head like mice from a cat. She was focused, more than before. The path in her head was as clear as a map.

Her hand tightened on the bottle tucked into her sleeve. She had found Lady Dracosa's old chamber, still filled with bottles of oil and scents. Her dress was finer now, dark green and trimmed with silver, with drooping sleeves and a neckline just high enough to not be scandalous. A gift from the vampire. He had found her in Lady Dracosa's chamber, knowing not why she had gone.

The kitchens were empty—it was before early evening, when most vampires liked to feed. Any who would bother her would find the claws of her captor. Most cared not for the stray woman; she used to go down there for food.

Galvira was not hungry. She was ravenous and wracked with thirst. But there were more important things to do.

On the right side of the kitchens was a table. A servant set down two goblets of blood there, moments before another servant took them to the vampire who did not want to visit the blood pantry. The servants alternated who was responsible for cutting the veins on their human captors. A task even they found distasteful, she presumed.

Just as she stepped off the staircase she heard a sound. Her heart sped up. Much too fast. She slipped into the shadows against a stone wall, a hand to her pounding chest. It felt as if it would rupture. It was almost worse than the times it slowed to such a lethargy she wondered how she still breathed.

"_That's common,"_ Erato had said. It would take time for it to balance.

Galvira remained quiet as death as a servant entered from the direction of the blood pantries. It seemed Roth had drawn the short straw. He set down another goblet and left, doubtless for more bloodletting.

She had to be fast. Blood cooled faster than water, even though the goblets were warmed beforehand. Roth's footsteps were receding. She crept up took out the vial in her sleeve. It was water—she was hardly a cunning poisoner—but for vampires it was like acid. Carefully, she poured the small bottle into it. She stirred it in with the narrow bottle, trying not to look at the cup. It only made her hunger worse.

No sooner had she retreated into the shadows than another slave appeared. Aliyah, Roth's pretty but absentminded wife. Galvira wished it were Chaya—she would have relished the thought of that crone taking a cup of poisoned blood to one of the vampires.

But no matter. What was it Sandulf said? All great movements require a few martyrs.

She turned to climb the stairs, stopping only when she noticed the sound of rushing water. It has always been on the periphery of her hearing but only now she gave it thought. Odd. Nachtholm was surrounded by a lake, not a river.

Curious despite her caution she followed the sound. It led toward the blood pantries. She shuddered. Luckily she found the answer before she reached the bloodstock.

It was a grate, half as tall as she was. It opened into a stone passageway and water rushed between the walls. She guessed it formed a tunnel, though to where she did not know. What was plain was that a man could easily pass through.

Pain shot up her leg and she yelped. The beads of water rolled down her ankle, casually flung from the passing channel. They trailed red and raw down her leg.

This was her fate now? She might have wept. But she felt no sorrow. A cold, dull stone had settled in her chest. Perhaps that was why her heartbeat stumbled and ricocheted. The vampire had taken her grief along with her life's blood.

Perhaps she should have thanked him. Her hesitations and tarrying had doubtless come from fear—from landing a blow that broke the stalemate, and then having her head ripped from her shoulders.

She had wanted to live. She had wanted Alaric to drive back the vampires, but also so she could see the Nosgoth he talked about. It was a place of wild, graceful beauty, when his ancestor the Time Streamer had wiped out all but one of the vermin. The survivor, Nosgoth's self-proclaimed emperor, had destroyed that.

That was gone now. The sun she loved now burned her flesh. She could bear no children. But she could help him one last time. She made that choice days ago.

* * *

Her second scream leapt from her throat when he readjusted his bite. The two hot needles driving into her neck made her shriek and scratch.

His weight pinned her down and his hand clamped over her mouth. Bound, the beast unto his prey.

She could see next to nothing in the darkness but even that began to blur. She was sinking, into the bed and into the world. The blackness at the edges of her sight rolled in, until he drained her dry and she fell completely.

Or so she thought.

The slap across her face brought her eyes open, heavy and unfocused. A wrist pressed against her mouth. Slowly, she came back.

He hadn't planned to kill her at all. He meant to recast her as an abomination. She forced her mouth closed.

"Drink damn you!"

How she was cognizant she had no idea. There was no pain anymore. There was barely sight. Only the rising and falling of her chest. It was a game. Would her starved lungs drag in another breath? The effort grew more costly with every turn.

Galvira could not feel the bed around her. Did she float? It seemed the creature was shaking her in rage but she could barely sense it.

Dimly she felt a cold settling in and stiffness close to an ache. _My mortal coil unwinding?_

For the first time it shook her, past her bones and in something deeper. What lied beyond the pale? Despite so many of her family dead she never gave it much thought. Alaric would not be there. She had been no help to him at all.

The lashing wave of grief would have brought tears to her eyes, had her body any will beyond keeping her from death's grasping hands.

Her jaw slackened. Warmth filled her mouth. It ran down her throat, strangling her with the disgusting taste of iron. She would have sputtered had she more strength.

_Alaric._ She was his betrayer. And his willing sacrifice.

Blood trickled down her throat. It was all she knew.

Her teeth latched onto the wound, widening the tears. She clung to the ledge and clawed her way back up. The burning started in her chest. Life's fire, scouring her from the inside out, harvesting everything to bring her back from the void. The blood began to slow and from the edges of her awareness she heard a ragged gasp.

Then it was gone. A force pushed against her chest, holding her back.

A break in the storm. The room returned to a hazy focus. Still dark but she could make out the figure on his knees beside her. His left wrist was a mess of bite marks, flexing as if it hurt. His eyes were the widest she'd ever seen. Dimly, she thought he hesitated to offer her his sword hand. Instead, he slashed a line in on his chest

She sprang like a hellcat.

It still tasted like gore and death but a second wind whistled inside her. Or a second fire. She drew long on the gash, teeth tearing it wider. Until that too was gone. A yelping snarl tore from his mouth and he shoved at her, leveraging her off and back onto the pillows.

She could breathe again.

The vampire rose, leaning on the end table. In the pallid light his skin looked ashen, and his eyes those of someone realizing he had crossed an irremediable line.

A languor settled into her limbs. The fire dulled to a warm submersion. He drew a hand across her cheek, carefully, as if he expected her to bite his fingers off. But she was falling again. Not to oblivion but sleep.

The world forgot she was meant to die.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

Erato stepped out from the way she came, the light catching the sharp panes of his face and the concern in his eyes. He had fought in the training yard and still wore boiled leather.

She couldn't do with suspicion. The vampire slid up to an arm's length, taking her hand and pulling her gently away from the grate. Her ankle did not pass his notice.

"You shouldn't wander here," he said, in a tone suggesting she should not wander anywhere. "You smelled blood, didn't you? From the pantries."

Did he think she would take it upon herself to eat her comrades? The thought lanced through her chest, cold and cruel. If she had wandered into the blood pantries, most like she would have found some of Alaric's men.

"Why is there a river?" she asked, pulling her thoughts away from the wretched souls now serving as cattle. "I thought the city was built upon a lake."

His fangs glinted through his smile. His smiles were easy but he paid more attention to her now, as if looking for an aberration.

"It's fed by an underground river," he said. "One the Dracosas used as a sewer. How do you think we got across the lake?"

She stifled her reaction. Neither Sandulf nor Alaric had ever found how Zephon got his vampire army into Nachtholm. They just appeared, slaying Lord and Lady Dracosa and slaughtering the sleeping garrison.

"How did you get through the sewer?" she asked.

His grin was almost disarming. "Very carefully."

Something hard rubbed against her fingers. Her nerves twitched and jumped now—a brush against stone, a slip of silk, all made her skin crawl. He wore a ring she had never noticed. It was plain silver, engraved with an insignia.

Ice clenched deep inside her. The Maziere insignia. Her family's, before she married. Had he taken it off some corpse? No, the Zephonim had never faced her family. Her father died at the hands of the Razielim. Her mother and older brother, the Dumahim.

Her heart ricocheted as her mind made the leap. There was no one called Erato in her family. Yet his features—it had bothered her since she had first seen him. The faint, cruel taunt of familiarity.

_Erkhard, _her mind answered. Erkhard Maziere, who left to find the Witch of the Waste a year after his wife birthed his youngest son, and never returned. He would be her—

The vampire stepped closer and kissed her forehead. Every force howled at her to flee this grotesque joke.

"Come, you need to feed, but I do not think you would appreciate the pantries yet."

Wordlessly she let him lead her away from the grate and back through the kitchens.

"What is my name?" he asked as they reemerged into the hallways of the castle. His new habit, along with his little moments of skin-crawling tenderness, was asking obvious questions. He always seemed surprised at her simple answers.

"Erato. And _mine_?" she countered.

He looked surprised, and perhaps hangdog. "I never asked, did I?"

_Selfish creature. _After dragging her into unlife, he clearly did not want to kill her. Her tongue was becoming less guarded. If anything, it made him more at ease.

"My name is Galvira von Raginmar née Maziere," she said. "Why I would not know?"

If he felt any sort of pull toward his family name he gave no sign. "I remember nothing beyond the odd scrap, like all my kind."

That gave her pause. She had always presumed they were seduced by immortality power and betrayed their kith and kin. Isana and Ghislain—did they even know it was their brother Sandulf who now wanted their heads?

And him. He did not even remember his own name.

He had told her before she was different. Almost all vampires were all sired by Kain's lieutenants. He pointed out the female from that night in the garden as one such—Galvira winced at the moniker—_bastard vampire_.

She did not look like the vampires that roamed the holdfast either. Yesterday she had looked into a mirror, terrified at the monster that would stare back. But it was just her, cast paler. That would change in time, Erato assured her. As it was the world seemed too bright and most things hurt her ears. And there was the parched hunger that never left her throat.

If her corruption spread from the inside out, at least she could see Alaric one last time.

Before she could think more, a roar tore across the hall. A door smashed open into the wall beside it and out tumbled a small figure, towered over by a larger one. Both staggered, the servant girl because a blow had sent her reeling, and the taller one because blood spewed from his mouth.

Erato took off down the hall. "Dedwen, what in nine hells?"

The vampire wasn't so tall, Galvira realized. Rather, Aliyah was small.

"The witch!" The threat was lost amid wet snarls. He continued to keck, blood running down his throat and spraying across an unsuspecting tapestry.

The girl cried from pain and fear, her jaw clenched at an unnatural, broken angle.

Another wet growl and the vampire struck her again, maddened in pain. _Crick-crack._ Such a small sound amid the retching and sobbing. That was all it took for Aliyah to collapse, her neck lolling like a goose's.

Erato grabbed the dead girl and hauled her neck-first to the agonized vampire.

"Get back to the room," he growled at her.

Galvira hoped her amazement looked like horror. She had only thought to poison the blood after she remembered Alaric's plan to take down Nachtholm's former leader. She hurried away, rounding a corner and coming face to face with another slave. The foolish girl looked torn between peeking and fleeing. Galvira grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Tell Roth!" she whispered with every conceivable ounce of terror. "The vampires have murdered his wife."


	17. The Cave Redux

**Chapter 17: The Cave Redux**

* * *

They pounded through the field, their horses' hooves trampling the grass under them. There were no roads here, only grass and lonely trees. They were not alone.

Zephon saw another form darting through the night. The low-hanging moon glowed against the white wolf's coat, making it seem half a phantom as it loped a furlong away. No animal would be so foolish as to approach. It was a ghost in his memory as well—Zephon recalled a wolf the day he fought Baldur. Not a day he wanted to remember.

Creatures skittered below the earth and just under the grass cover, as alive at night as he was. Further away drummed the padded wolf's paws. Mortal after all. The animal looked large enough to take down a horse. But not a vampire, and so the creature left his thoughts.

"We're less than a league away," Ryszard said.

Zephon knew they were close. It was why they cantered now.

Ryszard had not been pleased when he arrived the previous morning and was told he would be returning to the cave. He followed orders and that was all Zephon needed now.

Trennen rode at his other side. The archer had hardly said two words since they set out. A curious change, he thought, from the simpering vampire of before. It seemed his children still grew despite their immortality.

They did not ride for hard battle—Zephon wore a boiled leather cuirass instead of plate, his shoulders capped with steel pauldrons. His bracers were leather studded with metal, as were his greaves. He was not so arrogant as to travel into the unknown without any armor.

"Up ahead," Ryszard growled.

He felt Gevurah shift beneath him. The vampiric horse was peering ahead and his gait grew choppy. Zephon slowed him to a walk, just as Trennen's courser squealed in fear.

* * *

Alaric leaned into the gate, keeping close to the wall in case a vampire walked onto the parapet above. The sun was starting to dip and again he would have to return to his men.

Gods, he needed a drink. His broken arm had begun to throb again, a bone-deep ache that made him stifle a groan. They had no herbs or poultices left at the camp, only sour wine and watery ale. He could not drink enough to truly dull the pain, but it took the edge off.

Where was Galvira? Thrice he had waited and she had never come. He wiped at the sting around his eyes with his good hand. His throat strained at the thought but it was not impossible. The hellspawn had murdered his lady wife.

She was the last thing he had. Sandulf would tear him to pieces twice over. Once for losing his men, and again for losing Galvira. He'd taken her with him against Sandulf's demands. Because she had wanted to come, and so he could protect her. Not just from vampires, he forced himself to admit. Sandulf could do the same and had the benefit of a fortress. No, he had not wanted his wife anywhere near his great uncle. Instead he led her to her death.

"_Alaric." _He was so mired in his misery hardly heard the whisper.

He wheeled to the hole in the gate, which jostled his bad arm and made him cringe. A dark figure approached from the other side, still several paces away, covered in a heavy, hooded robe. She slipped into the shadows of the wall and extended a slender hand through the gap. A familiar gold ring glinted on one finger, studded with a sapphire. His house's color. He took her pale hand in his own. She would not pull her hood back but this close he could see her face beneath it. Pain stirred in his throat. She was ghastly pale and her eyes gleamed wet and feverish. No doubt defiled and fed upon. When he realized that, his sorrow melted to quiet rage.

"Dove, what have they done to you?"

She shook her head and drew closer, her voice scarce a whisper.

"I'm sorry my love, I was unable to break away. But I've found something. You can infiltrate the keep the same way the vampires did. An underground river passes beneath the castle, within a sewer. If you found the entry way out here, you would steal into the kitchens."

Alaric could have choked. How had he missed it? Sandulf had hacked a nearby chair to pieces when he found out the vampires had crossed the lake and taken Nachtholm. No one knew how they had done it. Her voice distressed him too. She spoke with a faint hiss, as if something had cut her tongue or mouth.

"We'll find the entry," he said, low and fierce. "And when I come, we'll free the survivors from the blood pantry, and I'll put the head of every vampire in this place on a pike."

Her hand trembled in his despite her strong grip. Fear or sorrow his knew not. Perhaps even bloodlust—though he hated to think she had been filled with so much hate.

"Just find the grate," she said. "The slaves won't stop you. I saw to it."

That made him curious—vampire slaves were chattel, but even whipped dogs stayed true to their masters. Such he had seen before.

"How?"

Her voice was empty. "A wicked trick."

Slowly Galvira let go and stepped back from the gate. Her eyes kept darting, as if she expected a vampire to swoop down from the parapets. She did not seem injured but he knew they had hurt her. He vowed they would burn.

* * *

It was as if a lightning bolt had struck the cave and vestiges crackled in the shadows. The cavern was black as Tartarus but it was _alive_. Zephon's fingers tingled and neck prickled. His wariness had given way to curiosity the moment he reached the cave's mouth. From the outside it looked like any that formed at the bottom of a gorge. But the energy of the place was a snapping dark current.

The shale crunched under his boots. Ryszard and Trennen were just behind him. Ryzsard walked with leaden feet and an unsheathed sword, his wary disgust palpable.

Zephon was transfixed with what he could not see. It was wrong; his eyes could not cut through the darkness. Instead he relied on his other senses—the shape of rocks that took up space, and the minute changes in air as it curled around walls. Glancing at his kin, he realized their eyes did not glow the way vampire eyes should in the dark, as if they walked into an abyss that had devoured any light.

What had he expected to find? The books told him what the cave most likely was—a weakened barrier between realms. It wasn't bleeding out demons. But if he did stumble across a portal to a demon realm, would a look into the beyond be so terrible? Even Raziel could not say he transversed entire _dimensions_.

Beyond that, it was an adventure. Something he'd had precious few of since they first raised the legions. Forging an empire was toil. A glorious cause, but dragged down with tedium and careful plans. Sometimes he missed the years when it was just he and his brothers. Once they were no longer gnawing on bones as newborn pups, the future emperor had left them to their own devices—they could hardly command armies if all they knew was to follow orders.

Those years had been too brief.

Just behind him, Trennen seemed to share his sense of adventure. Zephon could hear the lightness in his step and the quick beat of his pulse. He barely knew him, even if he had recalled him to life years ago. Trennen did seem bolder though. Pairing him with Ryszard had been good for him, though the vampires clearly hated each other.

A light in the darkness caught his eye. It was the only thing that could in the sightless abyss of the cave. No, not a light, but a lightness. A mural spanned a wall of the cave, the marks bright and pristine amidst the ancient decay.

Zephon crept closer. And stepped too far. The air rushed past him as he tripped an invisible snare. A defense or a mocking trap for art collectors he knew not. Only that a roar now shook the rocky floor. Whatever the mural was, it was not meant to be seen.

A new light appeared a dozen paces away, smoldering and angry. The roar took form within it, compacting, deepening, until it took discernible shape.

_Not these bastards again…_

The demon was black and red, its own flesh illuminating the surrounding darkness. Easily thrice Zephon's height, it hunched on two legs, reptilian and scaled. A ridge of spikes ran from its crown all the way to a serpentine tail that curled around its massive haunches. Horns topped its head like a giant mountain ram. But its eyes were the most unsettling of its features. They were conscious.

"_Damned ones…_" the voice rumbled along the rocks around them. "_You cursed us with these deranged creatures_."

Zephon could barely process that the creature was _talking. _If it came from another realm, the world the Old Ones sent their enemies to—the demon's roar shattered his thoughts. His ears rang.

"They are no kin to me!" Zephon shouted back. "They are gone from this world."

"_Lies! You smell of death as much as they do._" It crashed to all fours, its draconian muzzle dripping spittle and gleaming with jagged teeth. "_And now the others tear at us and hound us—and you won't take them back. Your debt is mine!_"

It charged like a slithering horse, devouring the distance in half a moment. Zephon flung himself to the side, drawing his sword and slashing at its neck as it roared past. On four legs it was several feet taller than his destrier Gevurah. But Zephon's timing was off and his blade bit into its shoulder, covered in scales hard enough to rival Zephon's best armor. He was so annoyed at his botched attack he only saw the spiked tail out of the corner of his eye. Far too late.

The tail caught him under the chest. He slammed into the wall, the stone grinding into his ribs and cheek. The sword flew from his grip and clattered somewhere a yard away. He slid to the ground, vision swimming, until finally his legs worked again. Blood dripped from his jaw. Now he was furious and ecstatic by turns. The catharsis of battle.

His vampires held it off. Ryszard had retreated beyond its claws, his broadsword bared.

Zephon dived for his blade the moment the demon moved out of tail-lashing range. Perhaps adrenaline still coursed through his dead veins, for he scarcely felt the blood flowing down his neck. The wound was closing anyway.

Finally he spotted Trennen. The vampire had dropped to one knee and knocked an arrow.

"_Dämon!" _the vampire snarled.

The demon looked at him. It was a predator and its gaze faced forward. Trennen's arrow buried itself in the creature's eye. The roar was deafening but now sweetened with agony.

Zephon sprang at the same time as Ryszard. The vampire went for the demon's throat. Zephon lunged from behind, springing over its tail. Its hide may have been thick as steel, but virtually no animal was as protected where its limbs met its hip.

His blade bit deep this time and his sword came back dark with blood just as Ryszard's sword came across its neck. Almost. It was fast, too fast.

It wheeled with unnatural speed, Ryszard's sword screeched over its armored hide as the vampire ducked to avoid its snapping tail. The demon's claws went for Zephon. He jumped back but its outmost claws caught on his pauldron, crushing the metal and digging into the flesh beneath. He was already turning to avoid the talons but the blow still sent him spinning.

Zephon was no frail thing though. Fifthborn perhaps, yet Kain had sired him just the same.

He kept his balance but landed low, one leg under him and the other extended in a sideways lunge. Blood flowed from his shoulder but no matter. What did matter was the dripping maw above his head.

The demon towered over him, so close he could feel its scalding breath on his forehead. But from this low angle, he saw the scales on its throat were small and fleshy. An artery pulsed below its jaw. Zephon smiled. His sword felt light and lethal.

What did demon blood taste like? Zephon prepared to strike again.

But something glided in front of him. The rippling cloak concealed all features except for an outstretched hand, taloned and pale, that held a red orb.

The air hissed as the ball took on its own fiery luster. The demon bellowed, one last time, before the orb seemed to implode. As did the demon. Its muscles surged and a black tongued lolled. Then its scales ripped apart, rupturing down its belly and cracking at the breastbone. It sent Zephon sprawling.

Zephon braced for a shower of gore but none came. The glass orb was a rage of red light. It illuminated the entire cave and only then did he see how large the cavern was. How had no one stumbled across it? A moment later he saw the bones. Hundreds of skeletons piled against the walls, human and animal alike. What had dwelled here? Not this wretch of a creature that now gagged its last. The demon was a guardian but it seemed unsummoned until now. Anything that had stayed here would have gone mad long ago. The light was so bright he had to close his eyes.

Though the exorcism he tried to perform on Selik seemed a lifetime ago, it had only been a few weeks. But the creature that had contorted and ravaged his fledgling—it was madness, pure as any.

When he could open his eyes the cave was dark once more, but it was a darkness he could see through. His beast was gone as well. The small globe was now the color of smoldering oxblood and solid as marble.

Without a battle raging around him, Zephon realized who the figure was even before the cloaked formed turned.

"Brother," Zephon choked, his voice caught between a whisper and a growl. "What are you doing here?"

Raziel pushed back his hood with a free hand.

"If you are to continue with this madness, I won't let it destroy you." Raziel pulled Zephon to his feet before he could bat his hand away. "Foolish or not, you are my little brother."

Zephon eyed the scarlet orb. He had heard of them—ancient creations of sorcery. A demon's soul did not fully take corporeal form, he had learned just days ago from the cathedral's massive library. A demon's soul was tied to the aether, not a physical body. Kill the demon and its soul still floated somewhere, though Zephon did not understand how it found a new form. Somehow these globes captured them until they were broken. He had not thought any still existed, beyond the handful of sorcerers wisely fled to obscurity.

"Where did you get that?" Zephon asked.

Raziel looked at it with a mixture of distaste and wonder. "It was a gift from our lord-father. He told me it would bring down a demon, though I know not how he was certain."

So Kain had ordered him followed? Zephon laughed bitterly. "I'm surprised he did not let it finish me."

"No one wants you dead, as defiant as you are," Raziel said with a chastising sigh.

"I was about to kill it, then you showed up."

Raziel smirked. "You were about to get your head bitten off. I always get you out of these messes. Though you seem to attract demons by the drove ever since that one possessed your fledgling."

"It wasn't a demon," Zephon snapped.

Poor Raziel, he looked almost confused behind his icy smile. "Of course it was, Kain said as much. What else could it be?"

"What I came here for."

Zephon turned back to the mural on the far wall. Raziel finally took notice. He tucked the orb away, his expression curious.

"Who made this?"

"An earlier race."

"You stumble across the strangest things."

Now Zephon had a chance to study the mural. The Old Ones here—or perhaps the First Ones, as they arrogantly called themselves—looked far different than what had appeared in his books.

The scene had some of them bowed in prayer, subservient to a nameless god. The blue-skinned race retained its wings, most black but a few plumages in white or tawny. Others were not so calm in their religious observance. Instead they contorted in agony, wretched in sorrow. Ivory fangs curved behind their lips and their jaws dripped with blood. Their eyes still gleamed yellow, but were flecked with red—something Zephon had seen in only one creature. Vampires.

That was…interesting.

"We think ourselves old," Raziel interjected. "But our lives have been but an instant. Do you think they were still here when Vorador was young?"

Of course Raziel did not see the connection. But as for Vorador, Zephon was curious. Though his name was drenched in blood and infamy, he had only seen the ancient vampire twice. The first had ended in a slaughter. The second, a diplomatic truce, with the strong inference any who wandered into the Termogent Forest would be sent back to the Kain in pieces.

His answer risked a slap. "I know not. I shall look into it at my new library."

But Raziel did not hit him. He looked merely annoyed.

"Why are you still trying to hold that place? You've come here looking for something and were almost killed. What are you still trying to find?"

Raziel knew how to pose each question like a spear. But his voice had no fury. Frustration, perhaps.

Zephon had almost forgotten himself, amidst the battle rush that still raced in his veins. He forced his thoughts to slow, to rebalance against the exhilaration of a fight and the aberrant mystery of the murals. He was here to find whatever secret Kain kept. What this race was that these vampiric creatures saw fit to exile. What they had done to earn a punishment that cost the casters everything. Why they were still able to possess his kin.

And all he found was a painted rock.

His anger was acid to his blood. A draught from his well of hate. It struck him so that it took away even his bitter humor.

When Raziel noticed his sullen silence, his smile was almost sympathetic.

"You lead a clan; you dislike orders—we all do, except perhaps our demure Melchiah. But we cannot conquer Nosgoth if we fight amongst ourselves."

Raziel clapped him on the shoulder, the one the demon had gouged. It was healing but the weight still hurt. Not that he would ever show it.

A touch of reconciliation? No, Raziel's hands were never far from his claws. It was chastising victory. That was why Raziel no longer raged at his defiance. He had the chance to play the hero, to ride in and vanquish the dragon his petulant little brother could not. And he knew that would shame him most of all. Raziel's face was always sincere—sincerely cruel or sincerely valiant. But Zephon knew his canny brother better.

And he knew he could do nothing about it. Zephon almost choked in rage, choked on his old wounds that still festered.

Raziel would always be the vanquisher. Long before Baldur.

That ghost enraged him above all else. His greatest humiliation and one of Raziel's greatest triumphs. The battlesong still raged in his ears, unquenched by demon blood, unsated by the cryptic cavern.

Zephon, so unwillingly bridled by self-control, hardly felt his own arm moving.

His sword lashed out with all the strength he could force into it. Even Raziel did not see it—neither had Zephon until the slightest moment before. Just as his sword found purchase across his brother's ribs, Raziel leapt back in enraged shock.

"Kill him!" Zephon snarled.

The madness of the command clanged in his head the moment it left his lips. Even a vampire as steadfast Ryszard paused for a half-moment at that order. Trennen attacked first. He loosed an arrow that took Raziel three-inches deep in the shoulder. As he stepped back from the force, the vampire threw down the bow and leaped, drawing two shortswords in midair.

Yet for all Trennen's newfound ferocity, he was still hardly more than a fledgling. Raziel snapped the arrow with his left hand and held up his right. Moving almost too fast for Zephon to see, he slid past the vampire's reach and grabbed him by the throat, smashing him to the ground. The longsword clattered. Trennen's shins cracked against the rocky floor and his clavicle grinded under the pressing weight. Instantly Raziel's own sword was out, pressed at the fledgling's throat, his other hand digging into his flesh with his claws. He wrenched the vampire between himself and Zephon.

"I'll cut his head off," he warned. Raziel's pretty face was twisted between incredulous and spitting rage. "_Fratricide_? I'll—"

He never finished. For all his blinding speed, he had not noticed Trennen still held onto one blade. Or that he would be mad enough to use it. The fledgling slashed it across the wrist of his sword hand. He must have severed tendons—Raziel's sword dropped and his cry was more pain than fury. Trennen tore free of the hand at his throat and rolled away, leaping to his feet as one hand staunched the blood now trickling from his neck.

It was the only chance Zephon had of surviving the day with all four limbs intact. Whatever lunacy had seduced him into attacking his older brother, there was no undoing it. There was no time to think, only to avoid his brother's bloodthirsty retaliation. That and, deep down, he had wanted to hurt him for years.

He rushed forward and Ryszard mirrored him from the other side, forcing the older vampire to pick one to counter. Raziel took up the sword in his left hand and slashed at Zephon, slipping away from Ryszard. Zephon countered—his brother was the superior swordsman but even he was not equally good in his left. And Zephon was fast when he had to be.

To avoid Zephon's sword, as well as Ryszard who was flanking, and Trennen whose throat was closing, Raziel had to step back, defending instead of attacking.

Zephon knew at any moment Raziel could counter and run him through. And if he did, Zephon vowed to spend his last laughing at his face. But this seemed suspiciously like odds in his favor.

A lupine growl skittered past his eardrums, hardly worth his attention. A flash of white, and a dark, twisting shape took form—kept back in his peripheral vision for he dared not turn to look.

The force smashed into his ribs and sent him flying. For the second time he crashed into the wall, but it was no casual swipe. He smashed against it with a force that shattered his shoulder and almost cracked his spine. No divine intervention could have coaxed him to land on his feet. He collapsed in a bloody heap, unable to even use the wall to keep him half-upright.

Ryszard sprang in front of him, sword ready. But Zephon could see past him, to the mouth of the cave and the figure who stood there.

His vision was blackening and his innards swam. The force had buffeted his insides too. Somehow, against the rising agony, he found his voice.

"_Stand down…"_

He meant to add _for the love of God_, or _if you have any desire to survive the day_. But blood rising in his gorge strangled his speech. He would have rather faced a dozen of the demons, even now, than the one who waited there.

Kain.


	18. The Memory

**Chapter 18:**** The Memory**

* * *

Zephon writhed in barely-conscious agony. It raked across his ribs with each ragged gasp. Blood poured from his mouth, flecked with viscera. Something had ruptured deep inside him. Or perhaps it was everything and soon his innards would be on the floor.

He was on his knees, bowed on one arm while his pulverized shoulder slumped unnaturally. Ryszard still guarded him but he had lowered his sword, his form tense as a wary wolf.

But the cave was darkening again. M_ore demons?_ he wondered in wounded reverie. No, it was his own failing sight. He was falling, sinking, listing, and nothing could drag him up. Until finally he seemed to float.

* * *

Gevurah thundered beneath him through the stone halls of Arden's keep. Zephon grinned as the destrier struck the hard floors, driving sparks from his iron-shod hooves.

A marble statue stood in an alcove. Zephon laughed as his sword sliced through its neck. It was Serioli steel—it had better slice through anything. He urged Gevurah on. The Zephonim fought behind him. He had taken the horse over the barricade, knowing Baldur was trapped.

It had been a risk, assaulting the keep before Raziel and Rahab arrived. He knew the scouts had spotted the first and fourthborn and guessed there would be no attack until then. The chance of surprise was a gamble, but like his other gambles it landed correctly. Fools barely knew what to make of the Zephonim scaling the walls.

Somewhere far away Zephon knew he dreamed. It was the disconcerting sensation of being and watching himself as he raced through the halls. He rode to his doom—no, his triumph. Simultaneously he felt the savage joy and nauseous dream of his younger and older selves. The disconnect jarred him, though the horse gave no sign of sensing his disorientation. As much as battlelust fanned through him, he knew this day was forty years ago.

The humans were close; he could smell them. He drew back on the reins and shifted his seat as the stallion slid around a corner, the sharp turn nothing for the stallion's vampiric agility.

Around the corner stretched a short hallway and at the end of that stood two heavy, half-open wooden doors. In front of the doors two pikemen braced their weapons. With this little of room, his legion's horses could be impaled or crippled, throwing their riders and breaking cannon bones. They were not Gevurah.

They expected the horse balk or charge, skewering itself in the process. The vampire would be jolted, and they would kill it. The gap between the doors was too narrow for a horse anyway.

Zephon pushed himself up until he crouched atop the saddle itself, one foot in front of the other. Then he hauled back on the froth-flecked reins. It was still several strides from the metal of the pikes but Gevurah threw his weight back onto his haunches, driving scour marks into the floor with his hooves, his front legs braced like rods of iron.

With that the vampire sprang, the inertia throwing him forward. He sailed over the soldiers, who were too braced for the destrier to react. Time slowed to a drowsy pace as Zephon went over. He had all the time in the world to slit one of their jugulars.

But such moments were just as fleeting as they were slow. Suddenly he hurtled through the air. He hit the ground in a roll, tumbling into a crouch. It was a noisy if graceful landing—he wore his most prized armor, light despite its strength. From his shoulders hung an emerald-green cloak, sealed and waterproofed, a boon against the rain the night before.

In front of him stood Lord Baldur, the self-styled King of Foxes.

He had expected an agile bull from the stories spread by humans desperate for a savior. Zephon had never seen him except at a distance. Instead, the green-eyed lord was lean and wiry, even with the elaborate armor that encased him neck to toe.

Unlike its wearer, the armor was just as rumors had said. Fair-haired, pretty-faced Baldur stood before a window, the evening sun casting the metal in a molten glow. Whorls and glyphs darkened the plating. He held a helm under his arm, the metal modeled after an eagle. It was impossible for the armor to be real gold; the lordling would not be able to move. Stranger still was his weapon of choice, a glaive taller than he was.

That was not right, the vampire realized. Every battle Baldur had led, he had carried a sword. Fox indeed, but no matter.

"My Lord Baldur, I am almost sad our chase is at an end." He mocked a bow.

"Zephon, my Spider Lord, I am almost sad you see this as a chase." Baldur's teeth were bright white. "I see it as a hunt."

They were a sight, Zephon knew. Two generals, smiling like kissing cousins as they prepared to slaughter each other.

The guards were both dead; Zephon heard the crunch of bones as Gavurah leaned down to feed. Further away he heard the clang of metal and screams of pain as humans and vampires clashed. He unsheathed his dirk.

Lord Baldur did think he laid a trap.

"Arrogant vampire." Baldur pulled on the helmet and lunged.

Zephon dodged, avoiding the glaive's lancing blade. Now to get past Baldur's reach and drive a sword through that pretty armor.

Baldur lunged long, making it easy to slip up and slide his sword into the lord's back, where a length of chain covered his kidneys. Zephon had nothing against toying with his enemies, but only when they were captive.

The screech hammered his ears and the recoil almost disarmed him—the touch of steel made the blade scream against the armor, just as a force rebounded the blade.

Zephon danced back from the lordling, who had likewise whipped around, his glaive poised for another strike.

The helm shielded Baldur's face but Zephon could feel him smirking.

"You think I would challenge you to open combat if I could not kill you?" His voice was muffled but mocking.

Zephon sprang forward, dirk parrying the glaive's shaft as his sword thrust at the lord's throat.

Another keening shriek and heat radiated to the sword's hilt. Zephon had to duck and retreat as Baldur twisted his glaive away from the dagger. The glyphs and whorls glittered against the sunlight. His sword had not even scratched the metal.

Zephon did not want to believe the rumors were true.

Hearsay had reached his vampires that spoke of enchanted armor. It deflected all blades and claws. Clearly to a desperate people Lord Baldur was blessed, the champion of divine forces against the undead plague sweeping the land.

Childish stories, Zephon had assumed. What better way to command an army than divine inspiration?

He had no more time to think—Baldur had lunged again, driving him toward a wall.

Zephon hated pikes and glaives. Impalement could stop a vampire, at least long enough for decapitation. It also gave reach to counter a vampire's superior speed.

He leapt to the side to avoid another glaive thrust. The chamber was large but still tight for combat.

This was a riddle he had no quiet space to figure out. Everyone had a weak point. The lord's armor was impervious and he showed no sign of tiring. His breath was even against the obstruction of the aquiline helmet.

_The helm_—the bastard had taken it off to banter with him. He had not strapped it in place. Could even the mythic Lord Baldur survive a sword to the face?

"_Stop you idiot! That's what he wants!"_ his future self howled. But even he had not found a way to sneak through time.

Zephon sprang, hurling his dirk mid-leap to distract the lordling. The jump carried him up and over, just past Baldur's shoulder as he reached to tear off the helmet with one hand and slash his throat with the other.

He did not expect the pain. Or the crunch of metal or the sudden jerk as he no longer sped through his calculated trajectory.

The glaive jutted out of his stomach, punching through ribs and scraping past his spine. This close, he saw Baldur's eyes through the visor. They grinned. That was his strength, Zephon realized in that eternity of a second. Baldur was no enraged lord rallying the human race for a last desperate fight. This was a game. An epic in the making, where he could end up a savior-king.

But then the moment was over—Zephon was still skewered like a solstice pig, hanging above the floor and looking down at his impaler.

The vampire felt blood drooling over his lips, and more pain as he fought and clawed, so enraged he tried to drag himself down the shaft until he could tear that helm off and eat his eyes.

Of course he could not squirm his way down an eight-foot polearm. Baldur swung hard, toward the window, driving all his weight behind it. Zephon flew helplessly with the momentum, glaive still punching through him. Glass was a bloody cacophony of tinkling shards that sliced through his ears and cheeks. Then, for a moment, he really could fly.

Cold air lashed by his hurtling form. He saw a flash of white, far below. The sun blazed hot, having not yet sunk behind the trees.

And all too soon he plummeted. Down, down, the wind beating past, and brown, brackish water rushing closer.

He had almost forgotten about the moat.

That was his second-to-last thought. His last was that white flash, once again, this time closer. It was a wolf, statuesque with golden eyes, standing close to the shore.

_What is a wolf_—his vision went black.

Zephon hit the water.

* * *

There are moments where time loses its qualities of passing and trawling. Where time simply exists, in limbo, holding its quarry for what could be an aeon or an instant. Zephon drifted in this limitless hell, bound by a smothering pain that he could not fight or crawl from.

A ragged gasp and Zephon lunged for the surface, his vision blurred and his skin as raw as when he had first returned to life. The air burned his face.

"I thought you might wake today."

The sensuous voice came from somewhere in the darkness. Zephon reached for his sword and met smooth cloth. Sheets. A mortuary? His sputtering mind jumped at random conclusions. Every breath shuddered against a radiating pain.

He could feel Rahab—their minds touched, like two serpents in a stygian cave, blind but for feel and wordless connection. They could not speak telepathically like Vorador's brood, but sense emotions and thus guess thoughts. It made it difficult to lie.

If Rahab felt anything from Zephon, it was pain.

"His blade was poisoned—your wound took gangrene," his brother said. "Not fatal for us but you were gone almost a month."

Zephon could barely comprehend him. The frame creaked as Rahab slid onto the bed and sat with his legs crossed. His figure was hazy but Zephon could tell he wore a robe. His eyes, that strange cyan, glittered in the dark.

Then everything crashed around his ears. His mind remembered black waves, golden armor, mocking green eyes—Zephon jolted, wrenching off the sheets. He gagged.

His skin was scabbed and cracked, the color of soot-stained candlewax, while a web of weeping pink lesions crisscrossed his torso. He looked like a leper. His sternum had a dark hole, circled with black and yellow necrotic tissue.

"Fuck…" Sometimes, even Zephon was at a loss for words.

Rahab chose to enlighten him. His sigh carried enough warning for Zephon to brace himself.

"My clan and I had just reached the castle when you fell. Baldur rallied the humans. We had to retreat as they flooded the moat, until Raziel could cross the valley to reinforce us. By then, Baldur and his vanguard were leagues away."

"Why am I not dead?"

Rahab smiled slightly. "Your cloak was sealed, yes? By some miracle it caught around your head as you fell. It protected you long enough for me to drag you out. Your armor helped, but we still had to peel it off you.

"How fortunate I had a glaive still jutting out of me."

"No, you landed on it. It would have saved me some pain otherwise."

Zephon squinted. He had thought Rahab wore a strange pair of gloves. Now he realized they were bandages.

"I owe you dearly then, brother."

"You do. And you owe my vampires who died there. But until then, you have guest right." Rahab gave a small, cold laugh. "I thought it best to keep you with me—when Raziel's forces crashed into our retreat, he wanted to throw you back in the nearest river."

_The arrogant bastard._ How could he have known Baldur had an enchanted suit of armor? Evidently he wore his feelings too plain. Rahab rarely looked angry, but his brotherly demeanor had chilled at the edges.

"Why did you chase after Baldur before Raziel and I could arrive? We—you—had planned to surround Arden's keep. I was wrong to follow you."

Rahab had guessed the answer but he would not have asked unless he had a shred of doubt. Perhaps he wanted to see if, just perchance, it was a gambit gone wrong and not a rash burst of competition.

"There was an opening," Zephon muttered.

Zephon looked away. A sure sign of a lie in a mortal but Rahab might take it as shame. Slim chance though. Zephon could look a vampire in the eyes and lie but he was too drained, too sore, and too certain Rahab would still know the truth. His older brother was canny and gifted with a serpentine tongue, but he made no move to chastise him. The truth was painful enough.

"Baldur's victory empowered the populace," Rahab continued. "Even Coorhagen took up arms the next day and burned an outpost. Lords that were in retreat have regrouped, and there's talk of a marriage alliance between Houses Raginmar and Maziere." His blue eyes were almost mischievous. "I did not know you were such a revolutionary."

This kept getting better and better…he did not have to ask if his ruined sight was also due to his little swim. But he would get better. He would heal.

"Baldur is dead, he just has not realized," Zephon hissed.

"No, he has realized. He died two days ago."

It was as if lightening lanced up his back. Zephon wrenched himself from the bed and staggered, his legs shaking and skin cracking.

"_How?"_

His balance faltered until Rahab dragged him back onto the bed. His hand sloughed skin from his wrist and Zephon snarled in pain. Rahab had tired of kindness.

"Raziel. Most impressively."

* * *

Zephon knew he still dreamed. He was never at the scene before him. He only heard from the others, from songs, and from fledglings chattering about their sire's prestige.

Raziel, slayer of Lord Baldur, the golden Prince of Foxes. According to legend, Baldur's armor was impenetrable—enchanted by a sorceress he had charmed. Or a sorcerer he had saved. Or a relic he dug up in a forgotten cave at the top of a mountain.

The lord himself stood in the center of a lavish hall decorated with holly and evergreen. It was winter solstice and outside Zephon could hear the fall of snow and smell the wetness as it congealed on stone.

Baldur still wore his golden breastplate but his wife had convinced him to remove his other armor. It would have been an effort—the lord never removed all of it. She was an attractive woman, standing beside her husband with unhidden affection.

When he wasn't driving a glaive through his spine, Baldur looked every part a benevolent would-be king. His smile was easy and his arm tucked into his wife's was warm. He spoke easily, graciously, but Zephon saw more.

His affection toward his wife was sincere enough, but just behind his genial words was the conviction he dealt with his lessers. His smile, doubtless, was half in humor that he had deceived them all in that he walked among them and not above them. They would have raised him to that, had he lived, but only the cynics and wise would see he had ascended those stairs already. Zephon did not think him abjectly cruel. Just clever.

He would have made a good vampire. Maybe he could—what a blasphemous joke that would be. Zephon almost snorted. The champion of humankind turned vanquisher.

Except that was not what happened. Zephon had to remind himself he saw only dreams and shadows. Baldur had been dead for fifty years.

The music stirred and Zephon realized the time was nigh. _Zigeunerweisen _strummed from lutes, a dulcimer, and a harp. It was a song of freedom, odd for solstice, fitting for Baldur.

Zephon stepped around several nobles. His discretion was silly, he knew. He had never been here.

He glanced at a couple beside him and stopped.

It was Isana and Ghislain, twins of House Raginmar and two of his most able future progeny. They looked little different still living. Tall and lean rather than muscular, their hair black and glossy as a raven's. Isana's eyes were hazel and Ghislain's were brown. That would change six months from now when he turned them. Even here they had all the sleek watchfulness of raptors.

They were whispering to each other, half in words and half in looks. Isana was coaxing her twin to dance with her while Ghislain was refusing out of propriety. Isana's mocking smile told decency to hang itself. Her wedding ring gleamed but her husband was absent.

She had given birth two years before, he knew. As for the child's parentage, Zephon had never cared and thus never known.

Of course they were not real. His mind was filling in gaps with strands of random memory. He was still amazed he had recreated the hall in such detail. The greasy crackling of roasting ox, the choking wisps of perfume, and the coalescing murmur of different accents – why had he invented so many facets?

_Zigeunerweisen_ coaxed more to dance, all keeping a slight distance from Baldur. The young lord moved lightly despite the armor, his wife equally graceful. The music rose in tempo, as did the laughs, spirit, and revelry.

Then Zephon saw him. A tall cloaked figure danced several yards from Baldur. His partner was outmatched; her feet stumbled to keep up and she leaned into his chest.

The song paused. Of course he made his move. Zephon rolled his eyes at the dramatics.

The figure whipped around, letting his partner spin into the crook of his arm. The gasps started from those nearest him. Her necked lolled back and her body sagged. The blood-smeared punctures mocked the hall of Nosgoth's nobility.

Baldur pushed his wife behind him and reached for his sword. Oh, except there was none.

The bitten woman collapsed in a forgotten heap, blood seeping from her neck, just as he drew back his hood. Who else but Kain's right hand?

Raziel's pale skin glowed under the burnished light. His smile, fangs bared, had the hall frozen for the briefest moment. It was all the time he needed.

With the grace of a fable, he aimed a long dart—Zephon knew from future tales it was mistletoe he'd fashioned a few minutes before.

Baldur began to yell an order just as the dart buried itself in his eye. The cry cut off in a yelp, then a crash as he collapsed. In the interim Raziel stood above him, kicked him onto his back, and seized his wife by the throat.

"A step closer and you lose your lord's son as well," Raziel said.

The advancing guards halted, unsure if vengeance outweighed their unborn heir. Zephon could see it now, the small roundness of the woman's abdomen.

Baldur had not yet expired, even if death already tapped its scythe in impateience. Raziel placed a foot on his throat. Zephon knew it was coming. Raziel's love of cliché was immortalized in the retellings of his offspring. _"Emperor Kain sends…"_

"A strike against my brother is a strike against me," Raziel said. "As it will be for any of your sycophants who take your crown—"

Zephon had never heard that before, and wondered what it meant in his psyche. But neither had he heard what happened next. Ah, Baldur's valiant wife. Staggering with loss of air, she kicked her husband's breastplate. Chances were she had no idea of its real power, only that it rebounded all weaponry.

The shriek blasted through the hall. The woman jerked as if hit by lightning—as did Raziel. She did what almost no man could; she caught him off guard. Raziel wrenched around too, whatever force that hit her also shuddering through him. They both crashed to the stone floor. Of course, Kain's firstborn was hardly surprised for long.

The first guard to reach him got a dagger to the throat and the second lost half his head to Serioli steel. Their fellow guards hung back as reinforcements arrived. Even Raziel could not comfortably take on the twenty-four guards now pounding from the barracks.

Baldur was dead. His wife sprawled a foot away, her blue eyes blank and unseeing. Zephon had caught the telltale snap of vertebrae as she had convulsed.

Raziel cast one baleful look at the crowd, human blood dripping down one cheek. Then he smiled, his fangs promising fates worse than death to all around him. He had to leave then; it was only a moment before the nobles realized, despite a staggering bloodcost, they could take him down through numbers, or stall him until the soldiers arrived. It was not the most graceful departure. He jumped onto the table and smashed through the window.

_This is wrong_—Raziel had thrown the dart, issued his warning, and walked out by using Baldur's wife as a shield. Zephon knew not an answer, beyond the mind's flight of fancy.

_History is written by the victors…_

A sigh caught in his ears. He turned to see Isana. Unlike the others who were rushing to their fallen leader, she remained standing, thoughts churning behind her kestrel eyes.

His thoughts were growing more detached, as the room seemed to lose its vivid color. Before, he felt a part of the historic night; now he felt like a watching dreamer. Isana almost seemed to stare at him, no fear, never fear, but curious.

"_So long for now, my dear,"_ he wanted to say, had he been more than a dreaming specter.

* * *

And suddenly he woke, in pain once more. So life circled.


	19. The Tribunal

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 18: The Tribunal**

* * *

Zephon woke under a rockslide. Pain writhed in his stomach, grinded into his shoulder, and throbbed in his jaw. Hunger parched his throat and thirst gnawed his stomach. This was no dream. He saw the present world again. Zephon leveraged himself onto his right elbow, his teeth gritting in pain, splinters shooting behind his eyes, taking stock of the large room.

He lay in a generous sleigh bed, the wooden footboard dark and gleaming in the gloom. Two candles, one on each side of the bed, threw a swath of light. Against one wall sat a massive rosewood wardrobe. Engraved in the door across from him was an unmistakable symbol. Kain's.

These were his own quarters at the Sanctuary of the Clans. This only fanned his discomfort. A wisp of a movement caught in the corner of his eye and he twisted with an involuntary hiss, pain crackling from head to foot.

The sandalwood scent was so familiar to him he almost missed it. Isana rested on the other side of the bed. For vampires, true sleep was akin to death, where all functions slid into dormancy aside from healing. In times of uncertain security, vampires rested. They did not sleep.

Isana's eyes flickered open. "At last you wake," she said, sounding bored.

She rolled onto her knees and slid across yard between them. Her swarthy hair fell in a cord behind her. She never wore it that way unless she anticipated a fight, rarely though she picked up a sword. Black breeches replaced her usual skirts.

Reaching his side, she eased him off his elbow and onto his back. His first question was almost past his lips; she cut him off.

"They took you to the Sanctuary five days ago—a rider of Rahab's came with the message." Isana ran a gentle hand through his hair.

Zephon squirmed to prop his back against the headboard even as it made him wince. Isana did not take to mothering niceties unless she was trying to calm him.

"Kain has you marked for Tribunal," she continued. "Rahab was riding here with a vanguard and I hid myself among them."

"Why is my brother suddenly so generous?"

"He appreciates conversation."

Rahab had no love for money. Zephon did not think he had much love for females either, given the abundance of elegant males in his brood. But Isana was different.

She _remembered_. Against death and magic, she recalled her human life as if she had woken from an afternoon nap. Her brother Ghislain thought he remembered too, but they were only Isana's memories, told to him so often he believed them his own.

Fledglings were like children. Their bodies remembered but their minds knew nothing. It had taken Zephon and his brothers years to see humans as enemies rather than food, even with Kain's detached guidance.

Isana was never that way. Though an ungifted fighter, her mind darted like a rapier. She understood economy and stewardship. Years ago Isana had convinced him to let the slaves raise farms and livestock. They were healthy enough to reproduce, and, as he admitted, those born into enslavement were far easier to control.

She and her brother obeyed well and could manage a city better than first-born Ruthven. But other times, rare times, he wondered if he should have killed her years ago. She hungered for something more than blood; it bothered him he had to _assume _she was incontrovertibly loyal.

The sybaritic woman had come to him willingly the night he stormed her husband's castle. Though first she attacked him with a sword. He hooked his blade under hers and disarmed her in seconds. She was never good with swords.

_Her eyes were wide and the whistle in her throat betrayed her fear. But even in the lamplight, her pupils were dilated. _

_"Would you kill me or have me?" _

_Zephon laughed. "I can do both."_

"_Take me with you." Her voice was a breathy whisper. "I know more about your enemies than any of your vampires."_

_He had pinned her shoulders. Slowly, she lifted a hand. His fangs were extended to feed. Bloodlust still high, they did not retract when he spoke. She pressed a thumb to one fang. Then she pushed harder, until the flesh split and blood welled. _Letting me appraise her bloodlines? How mercantile.

_Her offer to help was well-intentioned, no doubt. How comical she thought it swayed him. She would not remember her own soul when she came back as a vampire. But the noblewoman amused him._

At the time he was crowing his victory. Humans shouldered aside their kith and kin to join him. Now, fifty years older, amusement shared a place with antipathy. Whatever her fears, she betrayed her family and race to save herself. She had made good of her promise. He shook the useless thoughts away.

Glancing at his stomach, he winced at the red and purple bruises. Vampire and human alike feared Kain for his telekinetic power. Zephon had never had it used _against_ him though. Once, Kain had ruptured a man's heart from inside his chest, just when the warrior had Turel two steps from a river.

_Sparing the rod for me, sire?_ Kain had injured him two-fold, first with internal injury, then smashing him against stone. He remembered that too vividly for his comfort. Why—and how—had he followed them in the first place? Raziel was no delicate flower in need of protection. And Kain did not protect. They only reason he assumed Kain would intercede if they were in true mortal peril was that he did not seem inclined to make more lieutenants. Given Melchiah's necrotic flesh, Zephon did not know if he could.

"I know how I received most of my injuries, but what happened to my jaw?"

Isana studied his cheek, her light fingers trailing the bruises he knew were there.

"I would guess Raziel kicked you in the face." Her eyes blazed. "Did you actually attack him? Ryszard wouldn't tell me and Trennen has gone half mad."

She did not ask if Raziel had attacked _him_? Yet he could not answer. Lying here now, hunger a fiercer need than hate, he felt no rage toward his older brother. Annoyance and mockery, always, but nothing to spur fratricide. What murderous siren songs had called to him in that stygian cavern?

"He mentioned Baldur," Zephon said.

Isana rolled her eyes. "Hasn't he always? You weren't there that night. I was. Raziel terrified them more than any sacking."

He recalled his dream. Isana had looked so fair that night. And certainly not terrified.

"I'd forgotten you would have been there. What did Raziel say then?"

Her frown softened. "Not what the songs say. He said any attack against you was an attack against him."

What in seven hells had he seen during his death sleep?

And what would Kain do now? He had called tribunals before, but only to settle land disputes. The most heated of arguments boiled down to "My army was there first" versus "My army killed Lord Now-Eviscerated." To stand for fratricide—he was the first.

There was nothing to do but meet his maker and thus his fate. But first his thirst.

"Isana, give me your wrist."

"No." She pulled back.

He seized her arm, tired of her arrogance. "You forget yourself, my sweet."

She met his eyes, undaunted. "Why did you grab me with your right hand?"

Zephon realized he had, just before he realized he couldn't move his dominant left hand.

She eased her wrist out of his taloned grip, clasping his hand. "I would never deny you, but your shoulder did not set right. Good fortune, though—your internal injuries took precedence. It would be harder to reset otherwise."

He understood. Vampire bones healed fast, but wrongly set and they were murder to re-break and heal. Now, his misplaced bones ground against his ligaments. He was in for more pain before Tribunal.

"Can you realign it? You're not a healer."

She smirked. "No, but I'm better than your right hand."

_Hardly comforting._ He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in a pillow. She straddled his lower back and ran a cool hand along his scapula. With both hands she smashed down.

The crunch and jagged hot pain made him snarl. Clicks, snaps, and pops ricocheted in his ears as his shoulder ignited. Bone shards burned their way into realignment and the cruelties continued as she twisted and nudged each sliver back into place.

Finally, she pushed herself off and slid alongside him. He couldn't see her—he was still biting down on a pillow to keep himself from ripping her throat out. But he heard the faintest scrape as she cut open her wrist, and smelled the welling of blood, darker and headier than its human strain.

He twisted his neck just enough to take her wrist and pull it to his lips. Blood came too slow—she had refrained from slicing a major artery. He refrained from biting one open. She had just fixed his shoulder and even he had a mannerly streak.

As the bloody amaranth poured down his throat, his shoulder fired once more, sealing and strengthening into something more useful.

Isana's pulse began to quicken. He stopped, not wanting to weaken her. She might need to flee soon. Pulling her wrist back, she rose from the bed. He stayed still, waiting for his shoulder to stop twitching.

"You'll need a shirt when you stand before Kain." She tried to hide it but her tone was hitched and breathy.

"What happened to mine?" he said, his voice muffled beneath him.

"I took it off you to see how badly you were injured. Someone just threw you in here and barred the door.

Confident he would not reshatter the bone, he eased onto his good shoulder and onto his back. Isana stood at his bedside, holding a ruined piece of metal. His pauldron. Caked in blood and twisted almost beyond recognition. She tossed it away and turned to the armoire against the wall.

The wardrobe was packed with fine clothes, all fresh and dustless, even though he had not slept here in over a decade.

Zephon felt it then—a brush within his mind like foreign wind. Kain.

"You need to hide yourself soon. My lord father knows I am no longer catatonic."

Her sharp mouth twisted in a smile. "And leave my Lord to dress himself? Never."

She pulled a tunic and dark green vest from the armoire, studying it like a tailor.

"I doubt Lord Kain will decide any different regardless of raiment," Zephon said.

Isana looked up. He caught it—that look of cold cunning, when the kestrel became a viper.

"Have you decided your defense?" she asked.

He chuckled. "Even I have no way to swing this in my favor."

She walked over with his vestments, her corded hair swinging at her waist.

"No, but you could mitigate it. Give Ryszard and Trennen to Raziel. That would give him something to chew on and spare you the worst. They did aid you, did they not?"

"On my orders," Zephon said, his tone leaden. He could have goaded Raziel into attacking him. That would have helped.

"That makes no difference." She eased him into the tunic, careful with his left side. "Raziel would think his importance exceeds your authority. He would not kill them. Probably."

He took her wrists. She stiffened, knowing she had pushed too far. With all the gentleness he could summon in his souring mood, he pushed her to her knees until they were at eye level.

"If you led this clan," he said, "Your head would decorate a pike as a deposed tyrant."

"Strange, my lord. I recall few deposed tyrants in my lessons. Pikes seem better suited for inept good kings."

"Punish the ones who served so faithfully?" Zephon stroked her lacerated wrist. Had he wanted, even weakened, he could have drained her to near oblivion. "That is something I am neither cold nor stupid enough to do."

In truth, it was giving them to Raziel he refused to do. He sent warriors to their possible deaths every day. It was death's-head Melchiah who had hesitated before battles out of concern for casualties. But for those two, he had not just ordered them into battle. He had commanded them to attack the third most powerful vampire in Nosgoth. Benevolent he was not. He did savor loyalty.

Isana nodded. She would never agree, but she obeyed. She stood and ran the vest around his back. Finding a more ornate belt and a pair of tall boots in the armoire, she finished his outfit.

Zephon at least looked presentable now. He still wore his trousers from the fight but they were intact.

None too unexpectedly, a pounding came from the door on the other side of the solar. Isana knew not to speak. Instead she kissed him, tasting her own blood. He walked through the bedchamber door and closed it behind him, before crossing the carpeted solar to the larger door ahead.

Two Razielim waited. Zephon recognized Orias, Raziel's fourth-born. The other was younger but nameless to him. They looked ready to cut his tongue out and serve it to Raziel with a side of pickles.

"My sire has summoned me?"

Orias was taller than Ryszard but built like a slender tree. Looking down, his voice hissed with contempt.

"The Emperor has called you for Tribunal, to answer for your treachery."

When he was younger, Zephon refused to incline his head to taller vampires. Now he was past caring. Catching his bitter gaze, the Spider Lord smiled.

"I hope Raziel is fit to join us."

Kain had instructed them not to harm him. Zephon had no problem hiding behind his sire's orders. The vampires set off down the stone hall on either side of him.

The Emperor's throne room had three entrances, but the Sanctuary had only one built exit. They entered through a side doorway. Though it seemed an eternity, he had only been here a month ago. It had been far less crowded. Now, a contingent of Razielim stood to one side, while Rahabim and Turelim. Not many, perhaps half a dozen from each clan, but enough to make Zephon feel a sizable part of Nosgoth would soon see him brought low.

_And where are my dear ones?_

Ryszard and Trennen arrived at his side, still dirty and frayed from the cave, and looking as if they had not fed since the cathedral. Ryszard looked bored. Trennen looked…affected by his captivity. The vampire's glassy eyes darted from clan to clan and pillar to pillar.

"Were you injured when we arrived?" Zephon said.

Ryszard's vulpine face flashed one canine in an empty grin.

"Just tortured—they kept this fucking whelp and me in the same room."

The vampire had not fed since the cathedral. Zephon noted the varnish to his eyes and the ashen hue to his flesh. He would take care of the loyal soldier's bloodthirst, even if he had to bargain with Rahab for it.

Around him snipped whispered chatter.

"_Has the Spider Lord gone mad?" _

_"Drunk on power, more like." _

_"I see not why we left the front for this."_

The main doors to the throne room screeched open. In strode Lord Kain, clad in a long, black leather coat with red accents and inlay. His boots and trousers never seemed to attract mud. All murmur died. All knees bent, Zephon's included. Some things went deeper than bone.

Kain passed him without looking and settled into the rough-hewn throne. The pillars fanned bent and broken above him. The Soul Reaver lied unsheathed across his thighs. His eyes swept the room, at last focusing on Zephon.

"Lieutenant Zephon."

It was not a question. Zephon stayed silent, neck bowed, abeyant. His claws scratched into the stone as every muscle in his back coiled. His shoulder still ached. The others rose, as was custom, except for his two vampires.

"You stand accused of attempted fratricide, of failure on the battlefield, and breaking orders."

His tongue betrayed him. "Failure?" He risked a glance up. Kain looked almost expectant. Zephon figured now was the only time he would be able to speak. "My lord father, your other accusations I imagined. But what failure?"

Kain's fangs bared in a snarl. "You failed to hold Nachtholm. It fell three nights ago."

His sire's telepathic force smashed against his chest, until Zephon realized it was his own shock. Ryszard had wrenched up in a half-bow. Dangerous, considering he stood closer to Kain than Zephon.

There was no time to grab Ryszard and demand to know just how he had left the city he claimed to have stabilized.

"_How?_"

Kain did not rage. The icy accusation in his voice served just as well. "The same way you did. Did you think they would forget about a waterway _they themselves made_?"

Zephon rose, still on one knee but straight-backed. His shoulder creaked and popped.

"Allow me to take it back. I will ride to where my army retreated and reclaim Nachtholm within the week."

Kain's voice cut like sardonic steel. "You misunderstand. You have no army left to regroup."

_Slaughtered to a man._

* * *

Flames heralded their arrival.

They had made only two requests of the slaves: set fire to the tapestries in the main hall and stay out of the way.

Galvira had found Roth the day after the vampire slew his wife. Through his tormented keening, she learned the slave girl had been with child. So it seemed filial loyalty was not lost to these subservient dogs after all.

Alaric tried to keep her in the cellars but she refused. She remained at his side as they stormed the hallway, insisting she knew the halls far better than he. Acrid smoke came from the main hall and the vampires only now realized the danger came on two fronts. All of Lord Dracosa's expensive rugs and tapestries created a hall of flame.

She advised her husband to strike mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day and the least active for vampires. She herself fought against a cloud of lethargy.

Alaric held a shiavona sword in his right hand and a flaming torch in his left. His grip on the torch was weak—she knew his arm had barely begun to heal, but now adrenaline ate away the pain.

Further on the howls and cries relayed the battle. Battle, she knew, was not the proper term. The vampires were caught between an inferno and desperate soldiers all bearing torches and steel and crossbows.

A door swung open to Alaric's right and an unarmored vampire roared out. Alaric pivoted, thrusting his torch in its face, forcing it to duck right. His sword met its neck and cut clean through.

She hardly hoped to breathe. They had arrived with twenty men, now accompanied by twenty-five from the blood pantries whose minds had not shattered from captivity. Roth had conveniently misplaced a weapons wrack outside the pantry door. Some had not fought in months but survival and caustic revenge replaced skill with fury.

Ahead, a vampire danced between five swordsmen, her back to a wall. Galvira recognized Taugaral, the one left as commander after the two vampires from Ragnarok had galloped off so suddenly.

The female vampire fought with a sword and dagger. One man fell, then another. She wore only a jerkin and leggings, attacking even as blood ran down her arms. A third man gagged as she rammed the dagger through his eye, and another lost a hand as she lashed back with the sword.

"Back!" yelled Joren as he walked past Alaric. He dropped to one knee and aimed a crossbow. It was heavy and ponderous to load, but its bolt shared family with a harpoon. Joren took aim, just as the two remaining men jumped back from the slashing creature, keeping her distracted.

Leather and sinew twanged as the bolt erupted. It caught her in the skull, taking off half of it and burying itself in the wall. For one small second Galvira thought she would keep fighting. Taug twisted back to the nearest human, her features lost as blood rushed down her face.

Then she folded on herself, breaking and toppling.

Galvira could breathe again. Alaric had already continued. They rounded a corner. She realized they were in the hall of her—of Erato's quarters. She flinched to a halt. Two of Alaric's soldiers sprawled ten paces away, blood seeping from where someone had smashed their skulls together.

Erato turned, clad only in a bloodstained robe and trousers. His hands dripped with gore.

He noticed her then. Time rocked back, slowing as she saw his eyebrows flare and felt herself freeze. Alaric looked between them and snapped the puzzle together in rough fashion. Blue eyes met gold. They charged.

She screeched for Alaric to stop—even at peak strength he could not take down a rushing vampire, and weeks of crude survival left his cheeks hollow and his eyes gaunt. He hurled the torch at Erato but his broken arm betrayed him. The throw was weak and crooked and the vampire swept it aside as he leapt. It almost hit her. Galvira jumped out of the way, the flames hot as they rolled past her ankles. She scooped the torch up, wanting something in her hands.

Man and vampire smashed to the ground in a crash of armor and flesh. The vampire raked a hand across his face, snarling as Alaric rammed him with a metal-covered knee.

Of course his men rushed to defend him. Six pelted down the hall, swords and fire bared, hurling war cries. Joren had dropped his crossbow and was roaring curses.

_Indecision._ Glavira jolted, realizing the feelings were not hers, but Erato's. She felt them sometimes, especially when—she banished the thought. How else was she to ensure he slept soundly enough for her to steal into the kitchens? He did not seem to realize she betrayed them.

He saw her in his peripheral vision. _Fury bloodlust vengeance_…_hesitancy_. Indecision between her and the man beneath him. His chances, unarmored, against the eight soldiers were slim, even if he ripped Alaric's sword away.

If he grabbed _her _and bolted, they could escape. Rallying the chaotic vampires was futile. He was no general, just a fighter with a taste for rare things—a former treasure hunter who had left her family for adventure and never returned.

Erato sprang from Alaric, slamming a foot into his ribs to keep him down. He swept toward her.

_Decision made_. Not hers.

She still held the torch. It no longer blazed but the coals still smoldered. He did not expect it when the coals seared into his stomach. For the briefest moment he looked confused. Then he yelped in pain, his reactions a discordant moment too late.

Behind him, Alaric staggered to his feet, face bloodied and stance crooked against a broken rib. But he had not dropped his sword. Half lunging, half falling, he rammed it through the vampire's back. It went straight through. Heartsblood splattered.

His eyes rolled back to hers. Erato now realized. The desire to survive beat any other. Honor, affection, revulsion—and for him, obsession. At least she thought so. She stepped back as Alaric wrenched his sword out of the vampire's back and took his head off.

The blood drenched her in a spurt of carmine. She twisted away. Alaric would assume it was from horror. He could not see it was to hide her tongue that licked the blood on her lips. He would also think her tears were from trauma and terror. Salt mixed with blood, burning the tongue she had bitten in the fray. Alaric would never know her tears were from revulsion at what she had become, and torment for what she would soon tell him. And, somehow, for grief.


	20. The Ship

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 20: The Ship**

* * *

Zephon functioned a fraction above instinct. "My lord, let me take my army from Atziluth. I'll send every inhabitant back to House Raginmar in pieces."

"No."

Lightening could have struck him then.

Kain's jaw rested on his knuckles. "You attempt to kill your own brother and further disgrace the empire? You've seeped yourself in arrogance and stupidity." He sat back, his voice as much a taunt as a condemnation. "No, you are banished."

_Banishment?_ Kain had never said such a thing. Even Rahab, elegant and cold in an ornate robe, looked perplexed.

"To _where_?" Zephon asked, his molars grinding.

"An island, far from here. Until I can hear your name and not want to send you back to a soulless corpse."

Zephon had prepared himself for a beating, to lose a few holdings, or to wear a tighter collar…not this. Kain's rare show of verbal theatrics was strange too. Zephon reached with his mind, scrabbling at the emotions around him. He was not alone in his surprise. He latched onto the frission of anger. It came from—Raziel? He allowed himself the briefest of glances. His eldest brother had entered the room silently and stayed near the back.

Yet Kain emanated nothing. No anger or contempt. Nothing at all.

It was as he thought when tales of Kain's rage and wrath scared fledglings into whispered lore. Kain was ice, not fire, unless provoked beyond all accommodation. But those wisps of logic did little to stifle Zephon's fury. They did not make his sentence any better, only more confusing.

"Sire, what of my clan?"

Kain arched a dark eyebrow. "Have you none capable in your absence?"

"I would need time to meet and set down new rank." This was a _war_, how could Kain even consider this?

"No, your ship leaves tomorrow. You have two vampires with you now who can deliver a message. And that wench stowed away in your chamber."

Zephon caught Rahab smirking. Not from treachery, but because the Emperor saw everything.

_Tomorrow_…this had not been a tribunal at all, only a way to parade him before a crowd and read his sentence. His hands were cold as all the borrowed blood in him boiled in his chest. He jumped to his feet, biting back a cry as his shoulder throbbed.

"I have fought for you for a century and you discard me?" His voice sounded shrill to his ears. "You make my clan pay for my sins!"

A small, ear-splitting screech and he froze, dropping to one knee, eyes down. Kain had moved the Soul Reaver from his lap to lean against his thigh, the point scratching the stone floor.

"You forget yourself," the Emperor growled.

The bone-colored hilt formed the shape of a vampire skull, though it was too small to make Zephon wonder if it was real. It needed no grisly origin to be more ominous—the skull's eyes glowed with latent magic, needing only an impetus to reave the soul from his body. He knew of no other sword he would ever describe as hungry.

The Emperor rose from the throne and sheathed the Reaver behind his back. With that he left. Raziel followed, always a respectful distance behind. Zephon noticed he wore a heavy bracer around the wrist Trennen had slashed open. _Good boy._

Seeing the show was over, the rest of the clans began to wander off. Zephon looked up as Turel approached, towering over every vampire Zephon knew. His existence as second son had given him a penchant for eviscerating prisoners who coughed too loudly and a streak of cruelty a canyon wide. He and Zephon got along well enough.

"Was it worth it? Hurting him?" Turel's voice was thin and dry for someone so large.

"You could never imagine," Zephon said. "If you spar with him before you leave, aim for his left wrist and shoulder. That should get a laugh."

Turel smirked, though to most it looked like scowl. With his giant ears, it looked comical.

Zephon turned to Ryszard and Trennen.

"Let's go, my quarters at least have a place to bathe." His acidic grin widened. "And we can feed. If I am to leave tomorrow, I will abuse my lord father's hospitality."

He turned on a heel, suppressing the urge to howl in rage. He wanted to impale Ryszard on a stake and demand to know how he had lost his proudest holding. He wanted to roar at Isana for not mentioning _that_ morsel. He wanted to tear the ears off any slave who bore a passing resemblance to the Raginmars.

But as Kain found so fit to demonstrate, to hell with what he wanted. Now he had the task of keeping his clan from ruin. Of course the thought whispered in him—grab his companions and race back to Ragnarok, his best-defended city. But that left a large portion of his vampires at Atziluth, alongside the Razielim, and at a cathedral not built for siege.

The subsequent visions of his head spinning through the air as the Soul Reaver decapitated him were enough to bring him, however bitter, to heel.

* * *

"What _island_?" Zephon removed his fangs from the neck of a servant girl long enough to grouse. It was an art acquired with age to talk clearly through a mouthful of blood. She was well-trained, given the numerous scars on her neck. Nary a whimper unless he asked.

Isana looked up from the parchment, waiting for him to dictate his orders. They lounged in his solar, Zephon on a divan, Rahab settled in a wide chair, and Isana at a writing desk. A slave kneeled at her feet while her hand lazily massaged his head. Though his face was neutral and the bite on his wrist was closing, Zephon sensed he did not know whether to be more afraid of the vampire lord across from him or the harpy above. The servant was tall and lean with black hair, high cheekbones, and doe-brown eyes. Zephon noted the resemblance. _Missing your brother, sweetling?_

"Inishlyre?" she offered.

"What is that?" He wiped a fleck of blood from his cheek.

"Did you eat all the cartographers? Kain destroyed the most feared leader of the Sarafan since Lord Malek and you have no idea where it is?"

"You forget, dear one, we do not all have your historical nuance," Rahab said.

In truth Kain spoke little of that battle. Zephon knew more from human accounts than vampire—Kain had sailed to the island where the Sarafan Lord took refuge. He won. The only quasi-firsthand account had come from the captain of the ship, who had not followed Kain into battle. The captain survived by diving off his ship the moment he saw the port of Meridian, as Kain had needed him to return to the mainland.

Zephon pushed the girl off his lap and gave her leave to go. Her skin was growing pale and sweat mingled with her blood. Though it was not an offense, Kain did not like the clans draining slaves dry in the Sanctuary. Slaves were a finite resource, another reason the vampires needed to continue their conquest. Soon, he promised, blood would form a river through the Sanctuary.

He considered sending for more servants and hosting his own blood feast. If he was to embark on a foreign island, he needed fortification. He looked out of the wide window, its curtains pulled back as there were no fledglings in the room. The sun dipped halfway below the mountains now, painting the grass in refracted blood.

"Humans?"

Isana shrugged. "Of a sort. Ancestor-worshipping savages. They trade with some of the port cities."

"I wish to eat them, not play cards."

"Don't kill them all—you will need someone to talk to."

Her words struck like the claymore she never used. The concept of banishment still left him numb. To be…alone. He had never been alone before.

"As much as I find this discovery fascinating, it does not change the fact you will be gone, in the middle of a war," Rahab said, colder than his common tone. "Gods, I curse the day I gave you that map."

Zephon cursed the day someone had the idea to stick a demon in a cave. He regarded his brother. "Do you think things would have ended differently?"

"No, but I would think less that it had anything to do with me."

Clean hands, that was Rahab's way. They were as bloodstained as Zephon or Raziel's though.

Zephon dreaded the task to come. He needed to redraw his clan so that they did not tear each other's throats out. He supposed the blame fell at his feet. The Turelim lived and died by their sire's word, trained to maximum efficiency and obedience. The Zephonim were far more self-sufficient, but their rivalries might rip the clan apart the moment he could not play father. Now he put his trust in a scrap of paper and persuasive penmanship.

Ruthven was his firstborn, vain and variable and a natural patrician. He knew when to bite down and assuage, even if it meant biting his tongue off. He also was closest with Zephon's second-born, Lysandor. His third-born, Gabrjel, had died in battle decades ago. After that he lost track.

_Gabrjel._ Zephon cursed the boiling water that killed him, thrown by a disinherited Maziere lord who had joined the battle in one last moment of human loyalty. He might also curse his lack of grief when he found the lord's eviscerated corpse and raised him as a vampire. It seemed fitting at the time. Now it seemed almost sacrilegious. It was pointless to think about though, as Erato had died days ago at Nachtholm. He could have used fierce Gabrjel though.

"Ruthven is too focused, not to mention crazy," he said. "I need archons, not an absolute commander. You and Ghislain will be my seneschals."

Isana glanced up from the parchment. "Of which holding?"

"All of them. Find several vampires you trust and use them extend your reach."

The slave winced as her claws pressed into his skull. He understood her apprehension—he ordered her to tell his firstborn that his rank meant less than ability. A hard draught to swallow.

Zephon hated to admit it, but Kain's progeny grew physically weaker with each new vampire. Poor Melchiah was half a corpse. The same did not play out in his progeny's own broods. His brothers would deny it, but there was little care in choosing their firstborns—the thrill of starting their own clans outweighed exact character. If anything, he had a better eye now for humans worthy of resurrection.

Ryszard emerged from the back room, at last looking like he'd had a bath in the past year. Bathing, of course, was a different term for vampires. A lack of sweat made for less reek but vampire flesh had no particular repellant qualities against blood and dirt. Vinegar and oil sufficed. Like the Serioli and their weaponry, vampire wrath stayed its hand for a guild that specialized in scented oils.

The tawny-haired slave accompanying the vampire walked with a weak-kneed gait, her fear overridden by her legs' inability to support her without leaning on his muscular arm. Zephon saw the disgust on his face; doubtless he had only remembered Zephon's command not to kill the slave after she started to wheeze. He deposited her in an empty chair to prove she still lived.

The vampire wore a robe while his clothes were being mended. The indolent garment looked ridiculous across his rock-hewn frame. He was one who needed a sword at his hip to be at ease. Still, his eyes had lost their glassy hunger and his color had shifted from ashen to freshly undead.

"Ryszard, you will be my…" He never really assigned his soldiers rank—combined, the clans fielded close to fifteen hundred vampires. It was easiest just to tell them when and where to go. But now he was crafting an aristarchy. "…My Margrave Commander, with chief control over my forces. Do not let Ruthven negotiate them into oblivion."

Ryszard bared his fangs. "I lost Nachtholm."

"I don't blame you, much." Ryszard had given him the details of his time there. "I commanded you to leave when there was no adequate replacement. Dedwen commanding an army? I might as well appoint Isana my champion."

Isana rolled her eyes and Ryszard scowled. Zephon knew he had not told him the entire truth. If he were to guess, it had something to do with Alexis's bastard vampire. _Yes my dead son, I knew. I also knew it would die young, or else become something worthy of my respect._ Did they think he was blind to their antics?

"I am not giving you a choice," Zephon said. "You and Alexis were two of my best captains after Gabrjel died. I regret you have been reduced to dragging fledglings all across Nosgoth."

A long moment—forsooth, his grizzled warrior seemed dangerously close to regret—but at last he nodded. Ruthven would hate this. Ryszard departed.

His did not want his orders diluted by messengers and second hand commands. But already he was picturing his slaves revolting the moment the vampires left. _Damn _Kain for not letting him see his clan one last time! The alternative, a schism, weighed even more.

Zephon turned back to Isana. "I need every one of us to hear this. In one place, at one time—no one is to twist this into an excuse for a powerplay."

"I do not think your humans would open the gates for the Blue Thrones," Rahab said, studying his nails as if he had suggested it was Zephon's move during a chess game.

_You're positively dying to enlighten me. _"Why?"

"My outrider passed Nachtholm soon after it fell," Rahab said. "It was slaughtered to a man—vampire and human heads topped the pikes."

"Why would they kill their own kind?"

Rahab shrugged. "I would assume it was because they once served us, or because the servants realized that as long as there are kings, there are slaves, no matter the blood. Regardless, my scout shared his story with every holding he took respite. Your holdings, coincidentally."

Slaves heard everything. Once more Rahab remained the spymaster.

"Very well. Isana, you and Ghislain will entreat Ruthven to gather the clan. Everyone." He thought a moment. Ragnarok was his favorite but it was also perfect to hole up and resist a siege. "Meet at the Silenced Cathedral—it has no walls or battlements. Spread the word of felicity and agreement. If any attempt to overrule my word enough to cause a divide, cull them."

The slave yelped as Isana's talons clamped down. _Ah, my poor unpopular viper, afraid of drawing attention to yourself?_ She commanded respect from some, loathing from others. Ruthven despised her, the same way a fox protected its kill. Zephon counted on it—Ruthven had Lysandor as his confidant and counterbalance, he needed someone to get in his way. It would distract him from doing anything too revolutionary, and Isana could dance out of his way when needed.

"It will be done," she said.

Zephon sighed. Now to write individual letters to every vampire he thought could possibly make trouble. In truth, it was not so much the thought of conflict bringing down the clan as the _response_ to inner strife. His brothers hungered for land like wolves for sheep, as did he. With Zephon gone, how long before their eyes turned away from unconquered territory to his?

The Zephonim had to be at their strongest, most vicious, and most united.

"If you wish your orders to reach your clan faster, I can spare a few messengers," Rahab said, sensing the problem just as Zephon did. He did not want Isana presenting the order to Ruthven without Ryszard and Ghislain. Though she could talk her way out of many confrontations, it meant nothing if Ruthven's first reaction was to reach for his war axe.

"What would the price be for this generous offer?" Zephon asked.

Rahab looked up through the tendrils of hair that did not stay tucked behind his ears.

"Am I such a mercenary? Dear brother, all I want is to see the library in your new cathedral. It did survive the demons?"

Zephon laughed. "You'll find it at your disposal. In fact, I appoint you my librarian. Some of the tomes are in horrid condition."

They joked and prodded a few moments more, before Rahab rose to take his leave, his robe sweeping the ground around him. Unlike Ryszard, Rahab's slender frame looked serpentine beneath the flowing fabric. Always with deceptive languid grace, he walked to Zephon's sofa and extended a hand. The silver tendons in his wrist stuck out like fish bones. His touch was cold and smooth, his fingers caressing as his hand clasped Zephon's. His black lips bore a smile that had more affection than mockery.

"Goodbye brother. But not for long? Otherwise I will have no one to laugh at my jokes or appreciate my subtlety."

"I'll bring you back a present," Zephon said.

Rahab left. Only Isana and the slave remained. He could have found her a room, but the last thing he wanted now was to be trapped in a chamber with his own mind. Isana leaned down and whispered something in the servant's ear. Against his desperate poise, he let out a breath and left the room. He had feared for his life. In truth, bless his face, he was the least likely human for her to kill. Of course he did not know that.

* * *

Kain had exaggerated his leaving. Zephon's ship departed in two days. Tonight he was to set off for Meridian, with an entourage to ensure he did not flee to Ragnarok and get himself killed in a hopeless siege. _How considerate of Father._

Isana, Ryszard, Trennen, and Rahab made up the party that did not want to kill him. Orias, Raziel's fourthborn, led the trek to the sea, along with the heavy-jawed one who had accompanied him to Zephon's room. Zephon finally learned his name was Keran.

Raziel had left for Atziluth without so much as a death threat or parting crack to the skull. He did, however, wear that ridiculous red orb as a pendant. Two Rahabim had set off to deliver his message to other holdings. Isana would go to Ragnarok and take Ghislain with her to Atziluth to inform Ruthven and Lysandor. If timing cooperated, they would arrive at the Silenced Cathedral not long after Ryszard, Trennen, and Rahab.

That was all of their party. Evidently Kain did not think Zephon would run to ground.

They set out on their merry way together from the Sanctuary. In several hours they would come to a crossroads where they would diverge. Zephon and the Razielim to the sea, everyone else to Zephon's holdings. They rode in silence.

Zephon occupied his mind with all the ways his calculations would fail and he would return from exile to find ashes and blood. Even that was preferable to his journey across the sea. He rode atop Gevurah—the stallion had followed them to the Sanctuary. He would miss the horse terribly; sometimes he swore the horse had the smartest head in his clan. Isana promised to keep the stallion active. A labor of love, surely. Years ago the horse had almost bitten her hand off.

It occurred to him that he and Ryszard could take the Razielim. Rahab most likely would not stop him. But that path ended in Kain finding him and tearing his arms off. He had to ride this road to his sire's end.

The sky had begun to fill with blue as they arrived at the crossroads. Wet and cool, the morning air covered the grasses in low mist.

Zephon slid off Gevurah as Isana dismounted from her gray palfrey. The question weighed on them both. For once, immortality was not a friend. He could remain in exile for centuries. Had Kain not slept for two hundred years?

Isana kissed him. "Come back soon—I prefer being at your side to in your stead."

As it was, he could feel a heavy settling in his chest as he embraced her.

"Would Kain let you come with me?" he murmured into her hair.

She snapped up to look at him. Surprise and dread made it through her eyes. He took her face in his hands, reaching out to feel her thoughts, the ones that she hid too well. Zephon did not do that often—any contact went both ways and he had no desire for others to see what he felt. But curiosity drove him on, and she already knew his own doubts and rage that simmered beneath.

Behind her eyes, he felt pained loyalty, writhing affection that battled against dismay, and a soft twinge of self-loathing.

"Of course not," he said. "This is supposed to be a punishment after all."

He kissed her then and needed no emotional intrusion to feel her relief and regard. He could not condemn her for what she was.

Zephon turned to Gevurah. The blood bay stallion needed a blacksmith. Running a hand along his muscular neck, Zephon thought it hilarious the vampiric horse would have preferred a mouse to a carrot.

"I'll be back soon enough, friend."

He offered Isana a leg up into the saddle. The stallion snorted and tossed his head. Kain had given each brother a vampiric steed, trained in war and a weapon unto itself. No one else rode them. But he did not want the horse turning soft in his absence. Once he was sure the horse would not throw her, he mounted the palfrey.

"Ryszard," he said to the nearby vampire. "Before you revel in your newfound power, I have one request. Rahab will accompany you to the cathedral. I put him under your care and protection."

"You _did _clear the demons?" Rahab asked.

"The ones with horns, anyway."

Ryszard accepted, more taciturn than Zephon had seen him in years. Finally he turned to Trennen. The vampire was unimposing—gaunt and fine-boned. He was proud, but did not seep haughtiness as Ruthven did. Zephon remembered how the vampire had hurled himself at Raziel like a feral hound and torn through his wrist. Isana had called him half-mad, but Zephon regretted that he'd overlooked the young vampire. He rode up beside him.

"You've had more adventure in the past month than some vampires have in a decade, and proven yourself when the chance came. Will you wait for my return? I will reward your loyalty."

The vampire stared at him and smiled wide. His fangs were catlike, almost delicate.

"You will find me waiting, your grace."

A strange epithet, but he was a young vampire and Zephon knew them to say strange things, perhaps scraps of memory from their first lives.

At last, all goodbyes had been said. He walked the palfrey past Orias and Keran, who looked irritated at the sky's fading darkness.

"Let us fly, then," Zephon said. "Kain will have your hides if my ship leaves without me."

* * *

They rode in a silence colder than before. Ryszard had no desire to speak. They would stay together briefly, before the path split to the Silenced Cathedral and Ragnarok.

Seeing Zephon leave had only added to the muddled doubt in his mind. After his failure he expected a beating. Instead Zephon had rewarded him. It stung like acid in his mouth.

He'd been an idiot to leave her in charge of Nachtholm. A bastard vampire and a bookkeeper. Again he tore through details, trying to imagine a way he could have left the castle so that it would not fall to a handful of wounded humans.

"If Ruthven proves ungallant, will you stand by me?" The harpy's voice shook him from his thoughts.

Isana Raginmar was Zephon's pet, an exotic bird with a coy song. She was also part snake. Ryszard never spoke his peace to Zephon, but he trusted her less than an envoy of Razielim.

None of them could remember their pasts. He served Zephon because there was no other—he felt as much allegiance to his former human kin as he would a dog. Yet he felt no vitriol. Isana had given herself over with all the willing lust of a slammerkin, then used her memories to help destroy what remained of Nosgoth's nobility. Treachery was vulgar, no matter whom it served.

"I will follow Lord Zephon's orders," he growled. "If you deviate, I will cut you down."

She chuckled low in her throat. If it came to steel, the woman was useless without her brother. Ryszard could best him easily. Her defense always returned to her tongue. She was lucky he disliked Ruthven more.

"You've never liked me," she said, stealing a glance at him. Her eyes were yellow bands in the muted light, overtaken by dark pupils. "That's fine—you dislike everyone. But you never told me why."

His only obligation was to support Zephon's orders. They mentioned nothing of courtesy. "You're a turncoat, and a scared wench desperate to hold onto power."

Isana looked ahead, but a smile flashed across her sharp mouth. "With so few of mine own weapons, I need the best I can find."

"Coward."

"I never said otherwise. Six months before Zephon stormed my castle, I was half-dead from a miscarriage. And I remembered the beautiful creature I saw at a ball—Raziel when he slew Lord Baldur. So beautiful, while I was scant years away from becoming a hag."

There was no edge to her voice, only wry memory. He never believed speech to be without motive, but her agenda was less than obvious. The creature was incapable of shame. She drew back on the reins, earning an annoyed snort from the stallion beneath her.

"I also swore to Zephon I would keep his horse fit. But I rarely ride when not traveling. His place is on the battlefield." She halted and slid off the stallion.

Ryszard did not expect that. The harpy had no love of horses but the vampiric stallion was a symbol as much as a charger. Any yet, if he did command from the stallion's back, idiots like Ruthven would think before calling him a liar.

He dismounted his courser and took Gevurah's reins. The horse snorted—Ryszard wondered if it would try to bite his face off now that Zephon was gone. But the horse made no move to murder him and he vaulted into the saddle.

They set off once more, in a silence the slightest bit more thawed. He kept an eye on Lord Rahab. The slender lieutenant rode his own vampiric destrier, a silver-gray stallion he called Tiferet. He had traded his laggard's robe for more practical traveling garb, over which he wore a hooded black cloak. The vampire hated the sunlight more than they did. He also had his face buried in a missive, letting the horse follow the Zephonim. Though he seemed oblivious, Ryszard knew he was one of the most dangerous vampires in Nosgoth. Rahab hardly needed an escort. But it was Zephon's last command.

* * *

The ship docked in Meridian, one of Raziel's cities. Gold had surely exchanged hands—the sailors looked wary, but not forced to take their dangerous cargo.

Zephon had never boarded a ship in his unlife. Of course he had used a river boat from time to time, but the thought of skin melting off his bones made water travel less enticing. Not so attractive were the two Razielim who dogged his side. They had said earlier they would bear him to the island.

"Ah, company!" he had said as he wanted to tear their fangs out. "How generous of Raziel to leave me two servants."

And yet, even with Ryszard gone, they could do little to respond to his jabs. Zephon was older and crueler and a dirtier fighter. Strange, he thought, that Kain only sent two guards. It was soon after he realized they were hardly guards but formalities. After all, where would Zephon go otherwise? Vampires were not suicidal by nature.

Walking up the gangplank set his teeth on edge. The board creaked and the water inched closer. He was surrounded by death on all sides.

Nothing prepared him for the seasickness.

His acute senses could not adapt to the rolling of the ship. His nights were split between dry-heaving in his cabin and flinching as sea spit licked his cheeks on deck. Blood was absent. The ship had just enough sailors to maneuver it, and the seas were stormy this time of year. And too, as he felt his dignity shred within him when he buried his head in a pillow and clutched his stomach, the thought of blood made him want to wretch.

Though days and nights bled together, he estimated he had been on the ship for over a week when Orias and Keran pounded on his door. Zephon snarled in his throat. He had finally found a position where his head did not spin.

The Razielim looked little better. A labor of love for their sire, he thought.

"We are near land."

Zephon took a deep breath to steady himself and walk without staggering, and brushed past them as he took to the deck. His island retreat—Inishlyre, if Isana was correct—was shrouded in mist. The ship was no longer moving. Orias walked up beside him, a smirk in his voice if not on his face.

"The captain says there is no port. You disembark here." He gestured to a rowboat, suspended off the rail of the ship.

They had no plan to escort him to the island itself. It was not like he could row back to Nosgoth. And yet the thought of being so close to that sea of acid…only the vampire too close beside him made him suppress a shiver.

"And Lord Zephon?" Orias ventured. "Raziel sends his regards."

_Idiot._ The fourthborn wheeled on him, claws raking toward Zephon's face. _How gracious of you to forewarn me._ He grabbed Orias's wrist and snapped it. Weaker as he was from over a week without blood, he was a lieutenant of Lord Kain.

He wrenched Orias's broken arm, dragging the vampire between him and Keran.

"I've fought demons, sorcerers, and beasts with names too cursed to utter. Do you really think your games can hurt me?" He kicked the fourthborn to the ground and smashed a boot into his windpipe, pinning him and cracking cartilage. "And now that I have you on a ship, with no recourse for me but exile, do you think I have any reservation at tearing you apart?"

And yet, for all the blood in his fury, he knew Raziel would repay him if the vampires did not make it back to Nosgoth. Whether he saved his vengeance for Zephon's return or razed Ragnarok to the ground, the firstborn was loyal to his children. Nor did he suspect Raziel told Orias to punish him. When Raziel wanted someone bleeding, he did it himself.

The vampire wheezed beneath his foot. Zephon felt his fear and knew it flooded the vampire's mind too much for him to consider Raziel's vengeance.

"You owe me, bastard," Zephon said as he removed his boot. Keran sagely did not attempt to avenge his brother.

Zephon stepped over Orias's gagging form. Secretly, he thanked fate it was Raziel's fourthborn. Weaker now, he did not know if he could have taken down his firstborn Drachen as easily. As it was, Orias was surprised and unarmed. Those counted more than strength.

The rowboat's winch was easy to manipulate. After standing around like an idiot, Keran finally helped him lower it. If Zephon died, Kain would be furious—the young vampire did not dream of letting it fall.

Zephon's bravado vanished the moment the boat neared the water. The skies were gray and calm but the waves broke like shark fins. The keel smashed into the surf and he nearly jumped out of his skin. What if it leaked? Water sloshed over one side, hitting his leg and sliding into his boot. He yelped, feeling as if he'd stepped in fire.

But there was nothing more to do except row. The beach was his only chance—the ship's side was slick with water; he could not have climbed up even if he wanted to. So he rowed. Halfway to the island the clouds parted and the afternoon sun beat down in full heat. The earth itself deigned his misery…

An eternity later the boat shuddered against the shore point. Zephon sprang like a freed cat, as happy to leave the water as he would be to see Isana again. The beach was more rock than sand. Just past it was a forest, built up onto a rockier plain. The beach itself was a half-moon basin. Zephon's bones ached under this much sun, something he thought he'd left behind decades ago. Within nothing but the sound of wind and a distant call of seabirds, for the first time, he felt alone.

His foot continued to sting. Zephon spotted an alcove farther up the beach, built into boulders several yards from the trees of the higher ground. He limped to it and collapsed inside. It kept the worst of the sun out. Wrenching off his boot, he grimaced at the blistered flesh. That would take more time to heal with his depleted state. He could smell nothing of immediate danger, beyond the sea that lapped the shore.

Rest—enough time to heal and escape the afternoon. Then he would see just what kind of hell Kain had sent him to.


	21. The Island

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 21: The Island**

* * *

The stick prodding his shoulder made him rouse with a snarl, snatching and snapping the branch. He crouched in the alcove while the human scrambled back.

Thirst churned in his stomach and here stood a scrawny red-haired girl. _Are the fates finally starting to pity me? _Then he noticed the sea. No longer a beach away, it lapped five paces from where he slept. _High tide._ He forgot the ocean did that.

The girl babbled something in a strange language. He remembered the ship, the boat, the empty beach and the desolate island. They swirled in his fog-ridden head. Only his curiosity stayed his bloodlust.

"Who are you?"

She cocked her head as if solving a puzzle. Of course she did not understand.

"Niamh," she finally replied. "_Wie heissen Sie_?"

_Nee-av? Old Nosgothic?_ The language painfully warped to accommodate her accent and dialect; he could barely understand her. But it was better than whatever else she had spoken.

"_Ich heisse_ _Zephon_."

He considered devouring her. If not for her prodding he may not have woken up until the water was an inch from his face. The girl went to her knees, careless of the rocky ground, and peered closer into the stony alcove. It was so strange he backed further into it. Why in seven hells was she not fleeing a _vampire_? In her chirping language she gasped what seemed a curse or epithet.

"You have teeth. Sharp teeth!" She struggled for the word.

"Fangs?" he offered.

"Yes! Like a one who freed us." Her own teeth flashed in a smile.

To see a human so happy to see him was _disturbing_. Though she could not have been more than twenty or so—Zephon could not tell human ages well—even children knew vampires equated with violent death or servitude. Even Serioli craftsmen about to earn a year's wages bore them as much fearful disgust as propriety. _Us,_ she had said. He gladdened at that.

"You're like Kain!" she said.

_What in hell?_

"How do you know Kain?" he snapped.

The girl seemed too distracted by her excitement, gesturing like an uncoordinated marionette. Did humans really move around this much?

"The white one came on a dark ship, armed for battle." She spoke as if reciting an oral tradition. "He walked through the Forbidden City. He vanquished the Hylden, brought low and twisted by their wars. His work done, he left, and so we were free."

Zephon's hunger growled in protest, but the vampire lord was no impulsive fledgling. If need be he could ignore it, for a little while. He was confused and thus interested.

"He is my father." Despite the truth it tasted like a sour falsehood.

"He still lives?" she squeaked.

"We live for a long time."

Her gray-green eyes were wide. Surprise and—_respect?_

"Come," she said. "I invite you to my village."

Did she not see she was inviting a wolf into a flock of sheep? Regardless, he would go. It would be easier to assess this island if there were people not wanting to kill him. And he could see what his feeding options were.

She backed up into the lapping water to let him out, sandaled feet disappearing beneath the current. It took his willpower not to jump as the water receded so close to his boots. His foot still burned. She led, he followed.

* * *

_Two weeks before_

Galvira paced the halls, trying to drive the hunger from her parched throat. It never worked. Had she any tears left she would have cried in loathing. Every nerved triggered like fire in her veins, every sound scraped her ears. She could not continue like this.

Erato had kept her fed. Until now, she never knew how torturous bloodthirst was. Simultaneous thirst and hunger, and a monstrous exaggeration of the vertigo one experienced from human hunger. In her dizziness she felt hardly connected to the floor.

She knew Alaric wondered if the vampires broke her beyond repair. _You know nothing, my love._ At first she stayed in Lord Dracosa's chamber, covering all windows. Then night would come and she could no more stay still as a riled lion. Bless her husband—he did not protest when she crept from the room. She might not have restrained herself otherwise.

Several days later she could no longer sleep through the day. Every nerve cried for her to run and feed. Poppy milk had helped, a draught her mother's handmaiden had taught for a sound sleep. Galvira took enough for the world to fall away, but still somehow awoke when night came.

Thank the gods Alaric spent much of the day with his men. Thank the gods he thought her such a ruined creature she was best left alone with her fractured mind.

She knew what happened to vampires that went without blood—Sandulf had captured a score over the years. It was always the same. They did not starve to death. Rather, their true nature took over. The creatures would hurl themselves at cell bars, yowl for blood, and grind their fingers bloody attempting to claw through the wall. At last, they fell catatonic. There they were vulnerable to blades and fire—more so than before, as they lost their profane regeneration. Sandulf said it was ideal for sentisection.

_End it. Destroy your abomination before it consumes you._ That chant had fueled her before. Now…she couldn't. Whatever disgust she had for her form, the thought of killing herself made her draw back in bone-deep revulsion. Another part of her curse.

She could not tell Alaric. He would take her life, but she always remembered the first time she had seen him cry, after he killed his vampiric mother. He was wrecked for so long after. Now he had a war to fight. A distraction could kill him.

Footsteps thundered in her ears and she wheeled. Roth padded down the corridor.

"My lady?" His soft voice belied his tall frame.

Roth had stayed close to her since the attack, calling her a kindness after Aliyah's death. Apparently Chaya had refused to aid them, threatening to tell her masters. Galvira had kissed Roth's cheek in gratitude when he told her he bound and gagged the harpy during the assault. They were not on speaking terms.

His naivety infuriated her now. Was he so stupid not to see the blood on her hands? Galvira took a step, her weight shifting to the balls of her bare feet, begging her to spring. Even in a dressing gown it would be easy. He looked at her more closely—his throat flushed under torchlight. His soft brown eyes narrowed, then widened when he finally recognized the creature that stared back.

Though he claimed his benevolent vampires never chewed on him, something in her eyes made him bolt. A lifetime of servitude had not destroyed all natural instincts.

The beast in her ran wild. Before she could even think she was leaping through the air. She caught him with a knee to the back and hands digging into his shoulders. His face hit the ground with a crack.

Of course he screamed—she reached around to his throat and seized his windpipe until he only squeaked. Her fangs caught his artery. Blood—glorious, disgusting iron—flooded her mouth.

Too soon, Roth's breathing shuddered to a stop as sanity crept back to her mind. Now in the silence she was all too aware of the stench of death. At least the thirst abated.

There was little blood. Errant drops flecked her chin. A few more splattered across Roth's neck.

Now she could collect herself. The creature inside her, her own warped spirit, considered the necessities. Roth's disappearance would not go unnoticed by the other servants. In truth they were free; in reality they could no more strike out on their own than a trained dog. But they were a family. With no more vampires left in Nachtholm, they would piece together the details.

She dragged Roth's body into the closest room, his weight childlike in her arms. She had wandered into a secluded enough part of the castle; she had time before it was discovered. Later she could weigh the corpse down and toss it into the lake. Now, she had to convince Alaric she had not lost her mind.

The blood flushed through her veins, warming and vindicating. It had always revolted her before, even as she longed for it. Hunger made it sweet.

Their chamber was dark except for a shaft of moonlight. Alaric had drawn one curtain and opened the window—Galvira came close to nailing the draperies shut during the day. She needed no light to see him. Her husband slept, his broken arm kept out of the way. The desire to tear open his jugular had receded to a flicker of suggestion.

Sliding into bed, she touched his shoulder. He awakened with a jerk, always thinking of the battlefield.

"Are you alright, dove?" His voice was rough with sleep.

Suddenly he sat up, one hand on her jaw. She flinched away on instinct and he softened, caressing her cheek.

"I'm half-dreaming, sorry. Your eyes looked silver for a moment."

The tension snaked in her belly, entwining with guilt and grief. It had grown harder to conceal the changes. Her nails were blackening, her incisors lengthening, and her strength growing.

She took his face with her hands, kissing him until he closed his eyes. He breathed in relief. He must be happy to know she could still make love to him, that her capture had not shattered everything in her. Would that he knew another force within her worked in chilled calculation. She needed him with her, if he was going to believe her reason to be rid the servants.

* * *

Niamh followed a well-worn path leading from the rocky beach, the shale giving way to heather, then to a verdant field. Further on Zephon saw the forest, its tree trunks cloaked in moss. She forged her own way then, cutting across the knee-high grass. Everything was so…_green_. She was quick to break the humid silence of the evening.

"Where did you come here?" she asked.

He had not thought of a reason. To tell his tragic story of feuding and banishment did not seem endearing. He doubted she would understand it anyway. As it was, their shared language sounded read rather than spoken on her tongue.

"_Why _did I come here. _Where_ did you learn to speak Old Nosgothic?"

If the correction insulted her she gave no sign. "The Old Tongue? From the First Ones. It stays in their writing."

First Ones—had the winged creatures lived here? Zephon did not understand why their mortal enemy had built a fortress on the same island. Unless it was spite. _Think of your own kin. They were probably close as kissing cousins before it devolved into war and pain._

"Can you tell me about the First Ones? Were they winged?"

She shook her head, eyes closing in concentration as she translated. "No, the Enslaved had wings, but they are long dead."

He pried the rest of the story out of her, his mind scrambling to augment the scraps of knowledge he had gathered before. He thought he had pieced together the past. But that was a fool's errand.

"In very old times, the First Ones came here." She had to be reciting, Zephon thought as she continued. "Whether they brought us or found us matters not. Wise and kind—they taught us how to think, write, and seek the truth. They gave us homes. They corrected the lies and ignorance. But then they warred with the Enslaved.

"Enslaved?" Zephon broke in. "Why that name?"

He caught the annoyance that passed her features. She liked to talk.

"Their allies-turned-enemies. The First Ones knew them as the Enslaved because they followed a false god.

_Wars of religion? How sweet. Were these wise and kind ones so affectionate when they possessed children and summoned demons?_

"The First Ones, named Hylden to some, taught us their truths. The chains of a god are the greatest lie. Thought and ideals are our compass, creation and destruction our poles. Beyond that, we are free. The Enslaved rejected this, for their minds were poisoned by their false idol."

Had he gotten the winged ones confused with the others? It was possible. The art book had not said which race its two species were. He had assumed.

"The First Ones left to fight them," she continued. "But they did not return for ages, until we thought them half a legend. But they returned twisted from their wars, hateful of the world. They took back the gifts they gave us. They defiled their own truths; we became their enslaved for three lifetimes. Until Kain destroyed them."

Her people could not have been free for more than a century and a half. Zephon was close to a hundred and twenty, and Kain had sired Raziel a decade after he defeated the Sarafan Lord.

Soon he learned her grandfather was her clan's historian. "History keeper" as she called it, not knowing how to translate her tongue's true title. She would succeed him, and thus knew the stories with an acolyte's efficiency.

Whatever her noble tales, he hated them already. These First Ones—not the vampires on the wall of the cave—had caused him a banishment's worth of trouble with just one individual. Zephon could not check his fascination. Something called to him, namely Kain's refusal to mention the race whose leader he'd slaughtered. How the race returned in the first place. Sometimes he wondered where his beguilement with the past came from. Perhaps his lack of real memories.

Zephon also wondered about the island. It was green. Hills, valleys, and forests seemed the common scenery. From the moisture in the air, he imagined there were fens. _Vorador should consider a summer home._

"Kain told me of a city—is this your Forbidden City?" he asked.

Niamh eyed him under a red lock of hair. "Yes. My father does not let us go through the gate."

Zephon knew where he wanted to go.

The sun had set by the time they were halfway up a shallow hill. The smells of livestock, smoke, and sulfur painted the place in his mind's eye. Finally they reached the top, the village obscured by a wall of wood and…_metal? _Steel beams supported the wood, making it a studier structure than it looked. Niamh walked through the unguarded gate.

_What kind of village is this?_ At passing glance it seemed normal enough, but Zephon's eyes never glanced. The houses were constructed half from stone and thatch and half from metal. Only livestock greeted them. The buildings encircled a larger one, the center of the village. Niamh led him to it.

It was a great hall, with walls of stone reinforced with metal beams. Inside, it looked much the same as a hall in Nosgoth, only writ smaller. A long table stretched in front of a fire and at one end two men dined on reeking goat. Others crowded the table, lost in cups and conversation. Mounted along the walls, instead of tapestries, were swords and knives. It reminded Zephon he had none of his own.

"_Banfhaidh_," Zephon heard from a woman walking in from the other side of the room with a pitcher. She then stopped dead, eyeing the vampire. Niamh walked to the head of the table, to a burly, red-bearded man, who rose with less than friendly interest.

"_Deadaí!_" she called out happily, likely to cut him off before he could ask what in seven hells followed her here. She spoke in a rush, obviously about Zephon. The only word he could understand was _Kain_.

Did the village have a mine? A sulfurous reek burned his nose more than smoke. He took stock of the two men. They did not look like Isana's description of ancestor-worshipping savages. Niamh's sire wore a long jacket of sealskin, collared in russet fur. The younger man's hair fell in overly cared for strands around his broad shoulders.

"You understand these words?" the bearded man growled.

Zephon groaned to himself. His speech was even more mangled than his daughter's. But Zephon nodded.

"Why did you come here?"

_Ah, that minor question._ But the answer had come to him the walk over.

"I did not mean to. I was on a ship near the coast of Nosgoth. We were blown leagues off course. When we hit another storm, it sank. By a miracle I rowed to shore—your shore."

"Our boats cannot cross the water." The man did not waste his words. "You are stranded."

"My sire will find me."

The man held his gaze—few humans did. He looked inquisitive, if not happy. Niamh broke in with something that sounded like a plea. _Am I to be the dog that followed her home?_

"You rowed to shore but you have not looked at our food," her sire mused.

"My hunger is not the same as yours." The burning in his throat was a ceaseless reminder.

The younger man beside him snapped something. His hair was the same shade as Niamh's, lighter than her father's. Zephon guessed they were siblings. Niamh answered with a sharpness previously sheathed. Sibs indeed. The three continued their trilling exchange. Finally, the girl turned and pulled out a chair.

"You can stay in our home until Kain returns for you. Now you can eat."

_I doubt my tastes would suit the table._ His mouth itched—he could push aside the hunger to an extent, but with the feast around him…

Zephon's mind ambled in fog, doubtless from hunger. If he wanted to understand the island, it was best to keep the girl—and by extension her family—alive. And Isana, damn her, was right. He would prefer to be hungry than sated and alone. There were people in other houses; somehow, he would find food.

"I find I am more tired than hungry," he said to the girl.

Niamh glared at the brother before he could say whatever litany was on his tongue.

"We have a room," she said.

The brother snarled something, and the girl snapped back.

"It was my sister's," she offered as explanation.

The chamber she led him to had a bare bed, table, window, and little else. It smelled of dust, and the faintest wisps of flowers and death. Niamh left him with the promise she would return.

He sat on the bed, deciding a course of action. He realized he could not. He had no idea where the city was, or if people other than Niamh's village lived here. And gods, he was thirsty—

Niamh's pattering footsteps clicked down the hall, followed by—hooves? She reappeared, leading a tawny goat by a thin rope. Her heart was beating quickly, though she offered a smile.

"I know from our stories that Kain's drink was blood. Is that all you drink?"

_A goat?_ This was a mockery. _With a word I could feast on a dozen maidens!_ Hunger churned in his stomach, every bit as cruel as he. Her slender neck would be so easy to tear through. Then he could drain every human in the hall.

His eyes had started to glow, or so he thought from the way her smile froze. It was a twinge of fear when others would flee. She was lucky she had never met a vampire, or else she would have run and he would have sprung.

Her throat jerked as she swallowed. She said something in her trilling tongue, then caught herself. "You can kill it. We cook it tomorrow."

Zephon's jaws ached in bloodlust as they loosened, every nerve begging him to eat the girl's heart and end his pain.

But he tamped down his anger and feelings for too many decades to give them up so easily. Raziel had made him lose himself, and here he landed. If he drained her, her kith and kin would come after him. Enemies he knew nothing about, in territory he had never explored. The ancient city could be a dozen miles away or stuck in a lake. At least here he had someone who did not want to kill him.

The goat's neck snapped in his grasp after he knelt before it. The thought of it bleating in his ears made its blood ranker. _Eating animals…revolting_. He had before – a herd of cattle was a boon to a weary army, only out of necessity. The hair catching in his teeth was bad. The thin, caprine blood was worse. But his hunger verged on a frenzy and the thirst accepted any sustenance.

Too soon the animal sagged and he let it fall. Finally he glanced at Niamh, confident he was not about to eat her. The strange girl did not look scared, from the dead goat or how close she came to death. Likely she was oblivious to the latter. Niamh kneeled to pick up the creature as if it was a stuffed toy. Its hooves scraped across the wooden floor.

"Tomorrow I will introduce you to _Daideó_—" she thought a moment "—my father's father?"

"_Grossvater_," Zephon offered.

"He knows the Old Tongue better."

With the corpse cradled in her arms, she looked almost charming. Bidding him good night, she left.

Once her footsteps faded, Zephon investigated the odd window. It was strange glass—perfectly clear stained yellow. It split into two panes, connected by a latch that he flicked open.

Night had fallen and he could sense no one outside the building. Only a fool did not scout his surroundings. Zephon jumped through the window, landing cat-soft. Hardly a home away from home, but at least Kain had not banished him to a barren rock.

He laughed bitterly to himself. Perhaps Kain meant him to spend his time contemplating his failure. All the more reason to find more answers. Anything to annoy his sire.


	22. The Hunt

**The Resurgence **

**Chapter 22 – The Hunt**

* * *

The sound of feet skittered in his ears, waking him moments before a sing-song voice jarred him from his fading dreams.

"We're going on a hunt!"

"A hunt for what?" he groaned, twisting up to see Niamh several feet away.

"Game of course."

At least she was not prodding him with sticks. He still felt slow and groggy – the goat was hardly a snack. But it dulled the aches and softened the pang in his stomach. His dreams, stolen in the several hours since he climbed back into the window, were less refreshing. Dark blood and grisly bones, though he could not remember anything clear. _Damn goat blood._

The human had dressed for riding, wearing breeches underneath a tunic and trading her sandals for boots.

"I thought we were meeting your grandfather."

"After." She was a picture of sickening innocence. "You like to hunt, yes?"

_Certainly, for a race you would sympathize with._ But Zephon rose nonetheless. Outside the window men and women gathered with horses and hounds. A hunt could give him a better scope of the island's size.

And yet, when they left the hall to join the gathering villagers, it was clear he was to watch rather than partake. "_Banfhaidh_," they said to Niamh. At Zephon they looked wary. No one offered him a spear or bow. Not that he would have wanted the latter. In a pinch he could bring down a stag, but not at a dead sprint. He would prefer to run it down.

Bows made him think of Trennen, the young archer he'd dragged across Nosgoth. Trennen had disappeared when he, Isana, and Ryszard were forming their plans, resurfacing when it was time to leave. Zephon assumed it was a tryst – the lieutenants disliked their clans bedding each other, but it was inevitable. Whoever the vampire was had given him back his shortswords; Zephon had not bothered to find them after awakening at the Sanctuary.

The vampire caught his eye though, regardless of affairs. To go from mewling to wounding Raziel – Ryszard had done his job and more.

"I thought this was a hunt, not a hack," Zephon said to Niamh, noticing even she had a quiver over her shoulder.

Her father – Ciaran, she had said – understood. Standing beside a horse and scratching the ears of a hound, the human bared his teeth in a smile.

"You are a guest. That does not mean I trust you."

_As if I need a sword to kill you all_, Zephon wanted to snap. In truth he doubted it. One against twenty, unarmed against swords? Not head-on.

He was, however, given a horse. The black gelding was no destrier or courser, stouter and shaggier than his own horses, but it looked hardy. They set out soon after, Niamh riding to his left and her father and brother to his right.

Zephon eyed the hunters. At most of their backs were bulky pipes of metal and wood. They looked inefficient for culling wounded animals. Most also carried swords or daggers, and a few had bows.

The sky was the color of dull steel. He was glad for the small things. He had no cloak and the direct sun would have given him a headache. It no longer seared his flesh, as long as he kept moving, but it was far from a comfort.

The hunters conferred in chirps and yawls; Zephon had given up trying to understand them.

They set off from the village, the horses' hooves muffled from the rain-softened earth. Several dogs meandered with them, darting and yipping.

Zephon rode in not quite companionable silence. After half an hour of villagers glancing at him as if he had threatened to devour their children, one human approached Niamh.

"Banfhaidh," she greeted, and they conversed, occasionally laughing.

When the woman left to prattle to more villagers, he nudged his horse closer to hers.

"Is your name Niamh or Banfhaidh?" he asked.

She smiled, almost coyly. "My father named me Niamh. Banfhaidh is what I am." She pondered the proper words, finding none to explain exactly. "I see things far away."

_Or an active imagination._ "Do you see the future?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Shadows. The Seer never told me how to understand them. Usually I dream of things as they happen."

The name tugged at something in his mind. "Who is the Seer?"

"A very old sorceress." Her tone had lowered. "I think she is one of the First Ones, from before they changeds. When I was three, she came to our village and named me a Banfhaidh. I have seen her twice since."

"Take me to her."

"You will only see her if she wishes it." She looked rueful. "I do not know where she lives. But she has never harmed us."

Zephon wracked his memories. The Seer sounded almost like the Witch of the Wastes, a legend in Nosgoth. Harmless hardly described her though. Those who sought her out returned insane, in pieces, or not at all. He did not think she existed, at least not the same witch. Perhaps it was a mantle, passed down through bloodthirsty sorceresses. Or bloodthirsty women. Humans were capable of slaughter without a drop of magic.

But one of the ancient races? He had to find her. Perhaps she could keep him from going mad on this island. He had so many questions.

"You said you dreamed of other things. What of the past?" he asked.

She looked at him curiously, imploring him to continue.

Zephon paused a moment. "Once when I was wounded, I dreamed of a past battle. And a significant event after."

"Why do you think it was more than memory?"

"I was at the battle, not what happened after. I saw things that contradicted everything I knew."

Niamh shrugged as if he had just shared dinner plans. "I don't know – I never see the past. But it should not be so difficult. Time is ima—imu—" she blushed in annoyance as her tongue wrestled with the word.

"—immutable?" he asked. "Why do you think that?"

Another look of casual knowing. "The First Ones left behind their work. They say time is a loop, unchanging—oh, we've found something!"

The hounds dashed into the brush. They had ridden into a clearing, close to the trees. Zephon heard the frantic rustle, and a doe plunged from the trees. The dogs followed. A hunter aimed a bow, fired, and the animal took off at an erratic gallop, blood coursing from its neck.

Ciaran ordered the dogs to stop, though they whined and continued to bark. It was then Zephon heard another sound – large, undaunted, and smashing toward the villagers. Zephon heard hooves around him but he looked only at the forest.

A dark mass crashed into the clearing, faster than the deer and far more focused. To most it was probably a rush of charging limbs and spines, but Zephon's eyes could pick it apart.

_Oh fucking hell._ Could he go two weeks without encountering one of these abominations? _Fucking demons. _

The horse-sized beast looked like the twisted offspring of a dragon and lion. Black scales covered its hide and jagged spines crested its short neck. And it raced for the hunters, eyes blazing with unnatural light.

Half of the hunters raised those strange pipes, holding them by a wooden stock.

Zephon's ears erupted in agony.

Thunder roared from the pipes, spitting fire and guttering smoke. The stench of sulfur stung his nose. The demon seized up in mid-stride, and its last move toward the hunters was it skidding over the grass with a broken groan. Zephon worked his jaw, trying to drive out the cacophonus ringing. He still heard the creature's rustling footfalls—

Behind him. Zephon moved his legs to pivot the horse but the animal crow-hopped in confusion before he could wrench it around. Niamh's brother stood between the vampire and the forest – he had moved to flank the first demon. His hands worked at the pipe, wedging something into the barrel.

The second demon erupted from the trees. This one dwarfed the horses and its hide was mottled green. In a single stride it pounced. The horse scrambled away, blood trailing from its hindquarters, but the brother – Ronan, Niamh had called him – was dragged in by its talons.

Hunters yelled and Zephon saw them raise their blazing sticks again. But they did not fire. Niamh aimed her bow as well, her lips bloodless. Zephon guessed they did not want to kill the boy. Or fell the demon, crushing the whelp beneath it. _Senseless sentiment. _

The demon looked up at its audience. Its eyes were the same bright gold as its mate. Zephon stared back. Demons were intelligent. Not comparable to the one he had found in the cave, but this was no lion or wolf. He could see the vengeance in its taunting gaze. The boy would be dead, but it would not be quick.

Zephon did not care if it ate the brother joint by joint. But seeing the same kind of creature that had smashed his life to pieces and left him an exile…to see it mocking him with a prize it thought he cared about—

He spun the gelding to face the humans. Ciaran was close, his hands occupied with the strange weapon. His sword hung at his side. Zephon dived off his horse and lunged, yanking the sword from its sheath. Metal cracked against his jaw as the man swore, but he was already turning.

The demon did not think any would charge while it pinned a captive. It did not possess a prey's instincts to know when to bolt. Zephon did not allow it time to think more. He reached it in a burst of speed, the borrowed sword whistling as he plunged it into the demon's chest.

It dodged at the last second and Zephon's blade scored along its shoulder, scraping its scales. Talons swung at his head – but Zephon had learned the claws extended, and that twisting away would only leave him gouged. So he did not try, but wrenched the sword up again. It crunched straight through the demon's hand. Zephon twisted it for spite.

The demon roared, spit flying in Zephon's face, hot and reeking of metal and flesh. The paw still batted him, but it was uncoordinated and only knocked him to the ground. While it tried to dislodge the sword, Zephon sprang to its front. The demon had lowered itself as it swung its impaled hand, its face only several feet above him. It lacked the dragon snout of the cave demon, its visage leonine and armored in scale.

But not its eyes. Zephon sprang, straight up. He rammed his hand into its left eye, busting past the yellow orb. His claws sank into something spongy and he clenched his fist, ripping through tissue. He yanked his arm back just as the creature collapsed.

Blood and slime and bits of eyeball drenched his arm to the elbow. More of the soft stuff was lodged under his claws. Disgusting.

The demon twitched in the final pulses of life, blood pouring from its wrecked eye socket. The scent caught his breath. Hunger growled, pure and gnawing and parching his throat. _You always wondered what demon blood tastes like. _Sometimes the thirst had a voice of its own.

He crouched and sank his fangs into the softest part of its neck. The skin was thicker and harder but his hunger would not falter. His fangs found an artery and he drew.

_Disgusting and heady and venomous and intoxicating – wine and venom, burning oil and slick velvet. _

It was thicker than human blood. It felt black and sharp as it coursed down his throat. It was foul one moment, potent and mouthwatering the next. His head swam in dizziness. And with it he felt himself fill. The anemic dullness left his hands. The headache smothered. Life flowed back into his veins. Zephon tore his face away before he collapsed in a torpor.

When he stood, the world seemed better. First he yanked the sword from the demon's hand, and then he walked several yards to Ronan, the whelp who had been a catalyst in this strange discovery. Zephon hauled him to his feet. The brother staggered, blood running from a deep cut in his thigh. But Zephon was full and not compelled to devour him on site.

The vampire went to drag him to his father but the boy snapped something. _As if I understand you?_ Yet Ronan spoke again, softer, in some mangled language Zephon finally realized he could understand.

"Please. I can walk."

Zephon let him go. Unsteady but gritting his jaw through the pain, the brother limped to his horse, held by a man who had dismounted to catch it. Zephon walked to the father himself, his stride lighter and defter than it had been since he left Nosgoth.

"You see what I can do," he said, half with glee and half with threat. "And what I choose not to do."

Ciaran stared down at him from horseback, his rock-hewn face almost unreadable for a human. "I see you stole my sword to save my son."

"I'm unpredictable like that," Zephon said. The words seemed lost on the chief. But Zephon handed him the sword and Ciaran did not look like he would try to kill him. He turned his horse and went to his kin.

Zephon's horse grazed where he had left it. As he swung onto the saddle, he grimaced. His stomach rolled, similar to his hunger, but not hunger at all. It was a sensation he did not have a name for. Someone field-dressed the dead deer and soon they moved out.

It took him only a few minutes to notice Niamh had drifted back and was steering him further from the villagers.

"If you wanted me to ravish you in the woods you need only ask," he said.

She laughed at that. Zephon did not know if she understood or if it was the tone of his voice.

"What are those things you carry? The sticks with fire," he asked.

"You don't have them, do you?" She had a proud angle to her chin. "They were a gift from the First Ones. It's a harkbus."

"They fought with these?"

"They had no need. But we needed protection," she looked ahead at her companions. "Now they kill _deamhain_ and the Dearg-Dul." She chuckled, quietly. "My friends did not know Kain drank blood. They wonder if you're a Dearg-Dul."

"If that is a compliment I have no idea what you mean." The euphoria from the demon blood had faded, sapping his good humor.

Her eyes were bright, the story like a fluttering bird in her throat. "When Kain destroyed the First Ones, my people split. My ancestors took what they could of their knowledge and used it to rebuild our home, half of us going with them. We still keep their teachings.

"The other half, the Dearg-Dul, saw your father as…something to revere. They rejected everything of the First Ones who had turned on us. They look to the _deamhain_ for power. But the _deamhain_ hunt them as well, so the Dearg-Dul kill them and drink their blood."

Zephon's stomach churned again. The overcast sky had cleared and the midday light stung his eyes. "Damn funny way of worshipping something."

Niamh frowned in indignation. "Neither they nor us worship anything. They revere the _deamhain_. They would revere you too."

"Maybe they will be friendlier than your people," he groused, squinting.

"They would tie you up and drink your blood," she said, making it sound humorous without a trace of joking. Her eyes darted to his again. "Why do you want to find the Seer?"

As if he could begin to explain murders, treachery, and exile, on top of a history he was cobbling together from scraps. "I have questions about the past," he offered.

A smile fluttered on her lips. It was sharp enough to make him crack open a bleary eye.

"I cannot bring you to her. But I can bring you to something else." Her voice dropped. "Their ruined city has all their secrets."

And something twisted in him. Jerking his head over, he vomited a wave of blood. The mouth-burning stuff splattered the grass, black as death and half-congealed. Any strength he felt from it left, replaced only by a drained emptiness.

Niamh reached over on instinct and touched his shoulder. Zephon growled a warning, too – _queasy_, that was the word humans used for it – to bite her wrist. She pulled her hand back.

"Not a Dearg-Dul then," she mused. "Can I get you anything?"

He wiped his mouth. He had been impulsive – idiotic – to drink from a demon. Better sense had guided him in Nosgoth after he battled the cathedral summons. Sense that had left him, along with his home and standing.

"Not a goat," he muttered.

_Does Kain mean to starve me slowly? _The thought did little to ease his mood.

They returned to the village several hours later, the humans with another deer added to their hunt. Zephon shared none of their nervous energy. It was the joy for life that came after witnessing one of their own nearly had his head torn off.

When he dismounted, wondering who would take his horse, he saw Ronan. The boy did not smile, but he looked properly humbled.

"You saved my life," he said, halting over the language he barely spoke. "I owe you a gift. What would you have of me?"

His leg was wrapped in a hasty bandage, already stained with blood. Zephon was tempted to demand his life, if only to see his reaction. But as much as he had been an idiot when it came to guzzling demon blood, he forced himself to recover reason.

"Your harkbus. I want to know how to use it."

* * *

The cathedral loomed in the distance, looking almost like a fortress with its walls and slitted upper windows. Ryszard kicked the stallion into a canter. Gevurah's snort seemed a snarl –it did not like to be kicked. It quickened all the same, moving more like a leopard than a horse. Rahab's horse caught up a moment later, the vampire's cloak billowed behind him like fins. Trennen followed.

The lieutenant had been a good travel companion – better than Ryszard expected, given the vampire's penchant for cryptic comments and strange musings. Mostly they spoke of battle, past and future. Rahab agreed with him that Turel's left flank had piss-poor protection but that he was too busy guarding Raziel's right flank to notice.

As he neared the cathedral he heard more riders, hidden by the crest on the other side of the holding. They too approached the cathedral. An instant later they cantered into view – Isana, Ghislain, Ruthven, Lysandor, and a score of younger Zephonim.

Already anger heated his blood. Isana should not have arrived at the cathedral for at least another day. They met at the cathedral's entrance, more like a standoff than a parlay.

The firstborn pushed back the hood of his mink-trimmed cloak, its green finery draped over the courser's back.

"Ryszard my darling," Ruthven crooned. "It's the strangest story! I received word that Kain has banished our Lord Father. Of course, I summoned my vanguard for Ragnarok, when who should I meet on the road but our beautiful brother and sister. Stranger still wastheir message."

Ryszard knew Ruthven was close to a frothing fit. Behind the firstborn stood Lysandor, silent and slatelike. Isana and Ghislain remained to the side, the brother between his sister and the firstborn. Isana sat as still as a fox that sensed a bow was drawn. Somehow the wench had found time to change into a gown and unbraid her hair; rubies gleamed at her throat and fingers. He guessed this was her armor.

"You defy Lord Zephon?" Ryszard asked.

Ruthven fixed him with the stare of a cobra. "Why talk of defiance, little brother? I call for harmony in this tumultuous time. A discussion."

Why had Zephon thought the firstborn would bend his neck to one not there to break it? Ryszard checked his first instinct, which was to charge him and break his wrists before he could draw his twin battleaxes. Despite a vanity that rivaled Isana's, Ruthven could cut the heart out of almost anyone in single combat. Anyone that attacked from behind found Lysandor's sword through his neck. Gevurah snapped at the bit; Ryszard knew the horse sensed his wish. It would eat Ruthven's pretty black mare in a moment.

The firstborn had his talents beyond combat. Ruthven could convince Turel and Dumah they did not need half his forces for a coming siege. He relished taking a map and tweaking it just so their territory included a village ripe for blood. But he was not stable enough to lead an army for anything more than a surefire massacre or death march.

"Inside. We will talk," Ryszard said.

"Something you are so good at, dear one," the firstborn replied with a bared smile. Ryszard had always wanted to break his fangs off.

They both dismounted, then the other vampires. Rahab stayed silent. A hood hid his features, meant to keep out the sun. The vampire had a strong distaste for it. Did the idiot firstborn not smell him?

The doors groaned and shifted as vampires within worked the mechanism. Zephon had spoken of it, though Ryszard had only seen the makeshift blood pantry when they stopped here before the cave. A metallic sound caught in his ears, almost lost by the opening door. _Unsheathed steel?_ No one drew a blade. He tracked every movement of the firstborn. So did Ghislain, always between his sister and the one most likely to kill her.

Ruthven laughed as they passed the threshold. "This place does have more charm than drafty Ragnarok, somewhere between the pews and sacrilegious altar. Is that an _organ_?"

Most of the cathedral's vampires had reached the bottom floor. If any of them looked ready to side with Ruthven, they would die.

Ryszard eyed them, scouring for a change in loyalty. He paid little attention as Trennen walked passed Lysandor. He looked up when the younger vampire stopped by Ruthven. Ruthven turned to younger vampire and smiled like a wolf about to go for the jugular.

"Should I know your name?"

Lysandor sprang from dead silent to walking death, reaching for the claymore at his back. Ryszard shoved pasted Isana as he lunged, bells hammering in his head, vestiges from almost a century of war. Neither moved fast enough. Trennen lashed out with a shortsword and slashed Ruthven across the throat. The firstborn looked surprised.

_How in hell?_ They had been disarmed at the Sanctuary and given common longswords before they left. He stared at the edge of memory – the whelp had vanished for almost a day.

Lysandor roared and swung, the monstrous zweihander that cleaved men in half smashing down at Trennen.

"_Nein,"_ said the young vampire, raising a hand.

Lysandor's war cry strangled in his throat as his sword wrenched back, cleaving into his shoulder and throat as his wrists snapped trying to stop it. Ruthven staggered, one hand on his gushing throat, the other seizing one of his battleaxes. Trennen took it from him as if it were a toy and decapitated the firstborn on his own blade. The vampire looked at Ryszard.

Trennen was gone. And Ryszard knew, the moment he thought back to the Sanctuary of the Clans, when Kain killed the fledgling. The vampire's death scream had sent the archer reeling; Ryszard saw it as weakness. Since that day the fledgling had grown more taciturn…and more capable. What had Zephon called the creature? _Wretch._

The creature's laugh sounded like breaking bones. "_Zu Ende_," it snarled.

Spasms erupted down Ryszard's back, wrenching his spine straight as a spear. The pain lanced through every tendon, ramming between his shoulders and driving them apart until bones popped. Years of war and death had thrown him into the face of pain and he looked back with indifference at gashes and breaks. He would have screamed now had his jaws not locked in agony.

Other vampires still managed to howl. The demon grinned at Ryszard,_ Fool_ going unsaid. Yet he had not moved. It was like the Emperor's ability to level humans without drawing a sword. Or hurl his sons into walls.

"My captain," it did say. "How I will so _love_ this. It is not easy to take orders from a feral dog." It advanced, carrying the battleaxe, its other hand drawing a dagger. "You saw nothing odd about this whelp growing teeth so fast? Why keep what blinds you?"

Ryszard forced his jaws to open. He would bite the demon's fingers off before it gouged his eyes out.

A rustle of fabric twisted its attention. Isana slid to her knees, her dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Pain did not show on her face but her claws were overextended and digging into the stone floor. And yet, her neck bowed – abject, mewling submission.

Wretch slid over, dropping the axe and sheathing the dagger. She looked up, her strange, dilated eyes dark pools Ryszard never wanted to understand.

"Your kind goes to such pathetic lengths not to die," the demon mused. "You had more honor when you were suicidal."

He stroked her cheek, his thumbnail dragging a bloody gouge across her white flesh. She leaned into it like a pet into a tender caress. Ryszard wanted to tear her head off more than the demon's. The treacherous wench _scrabbled_ for mercy.

The demon had nothing but lust and blood in his eyes – Isana was a fool. Ryszard knew her death would be long and painful and had no wish for it to be anything else. Wretch yanked her to her feet, his claws tearing through her sleeves. Though she walked willingly, he dragged her beside him, up the staircase where they disappeared down a corridor.

Ghislain, his arms twisted and locked like a puppet, looked calm. Too calm.

The pain eased, or Ryszard got used to it. He was still immobile, but his shoulders no longer splintered and his spine had stopped cracking.

An hour, an eternity – time grew just as warped here as it did on a battlefield. Ruthven's blood spread from his severed neck, forming a greater pool that joined with Lysandor's. The secondborn was not dead, but a bloodless husk soon to die. The blood slid past Ryszard's boots, filling cracks in the stone and finally dulling and hardening.

Then the agony ceased. He fell forward, loosed from the cursed sorcery. Blood slopped over his knees. Freedom found them all, though some vampires collapsed catatonic from pain and broken backs.

Ryszard dragged himself up, legs weak as calf's. He unsheathed his sword and ran for the staircase, rage and momentum keeping him on his feet.

The dragging steps jerked his attention to the top of the stairs. Isana. Gore covered her chest and face and blood plastered her hair to her shoulders. The dress was torn down the front, the bodice sliced clean through to her stomach. She carried a head. Trennen's, his jaws slack and viscera dripping from his neck.

She limped past him. There was too much blood to tell how much came from her wounds and how much from his. She walked carelessly through the half-dried pool of gore, her feet bare. And then she turned to them, and Ryszard caught her eyes. Those wanton pupils were pinpricks and her eyes flashed with gold.

"We do not need Lord Zephon to survive, if this wretch is any proof," she hissed. "Does anyone dissent?"

None did, though only half the room was capable of speaking. Ryszard shivered with pain. For the first time, he understood what Zephon saw in her beyond her whorish charms. She dropped the head and it bounced at her feet.

Ghislain slumped on his hands and knees, his nose bloody and skin ashen. But his mouth held a secret smile. He never doubted his cunning sister, Ryszard realized. Yet he did not touch her. This was her single moment as a Valkyrie. Isana stepped over the first and secondborn's corpses, tracking bloody footprints across the stone.

"Ghislain," she said. "Summon the clan as Lord Zephon commands. Ryszard—do whatever you see fit."

_Even striking you down before you gain enough favor to take over the clan?_ But he was in no state to fight anyone – his knees felt unhinged after a century of rust. A scheming snake or an indifferent mistress, he knew not which.

Nor did he know what would have happened with the demon if she had not tricked it.


	23. The Staff

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 23 – The Staff**

* * *

If he wanted answers, he would not find them here. Zephon stared down the thick barrel, focusing on the thin plate of metal set like an artist's easel. His finger closed on the trigger—and the explosion made his ears ring. The wooden stock rammed his shoulder but he barely felt it compared to the biting stench of the black powder.

As the smoke cleared, he saw the new hole in the metal sheet. All that work for a little hole? If he had not seen the weapons take down a charging demon, he would not have believed it had any use beyond startling cattle.

"Your aim is good," Niamh said. "Ronan shot a cow the first week he had it."

Zephon looked over. The girl's legs dangled from a wide branch. Her tree was a couple paces behind him and several more over.

"I see why you don't storm your precious city with them," he replied.

To fire just one shot he had to pour a black powder into the barrel, use a stick to properly load an iron ball, and light a string on fire. _Ridiculous._ Even with his middling archery skills, he could have landed ten shots before he reloaded the harkbus.

It made a racket though. He studied the weapon in his hands. A line of these erupting at advancing vampires might rattle them. Until they realized they had all the time in the world to rip them to shreds before the humans could fire again.

He was still irritated from the hour before. Niamh had painted her grandfather to be a wiseman guarding a collection of ancient texts. Instead he met an old fool who loved the sound of his own lectures.

"_We thought they were half myth when they returned," the old man breathed. "The bled us to a quarter of our number, then dragged the survivors to the city as slaves."_

"_Why did you move away from the city in the first place?" Zephon pressed. Most of their texts were songs and adages. Nothing historical._

"_I know not." His lack of interest made Zephon want to snarl. "Only that we dwindled in servitude for two hundred years, until Kain destroyed our slavers. Though not the _deamhain_."_

Oh father, so inconsiderate…_but thinking of Kain made him remember the throne room and his sire's remorseless face as he banished him to a green rock. _

"_What happened to the First Ones after Kain left?" he asked, jaw set._

_A feeble attempt at a baleful frown. "I know not, only that when we were freed, my great—"_

"_I don't care!" Zephon's patience was a snapped bowstring at his feet. _

_Niamh sat by a brazier, her expression shadowed by the embers' smoldering light. Zephon wheeled and left. He had not consumed nearly enough blood since his adventure with the demons yesterday, and the pressure at his temples sawed his tolerance to a ragged edge. His thirst was about to make him a _very _bad guest._

_She had found him half an hour later, a ways into the woods. He was looking for a deer trail. The girl held out the weapon – he had only used it once before, instructed by her still-surly brother. By luck, they were near a clearing where her kin liked to practice shooting._

"I am sorry there was little to your satisfaction."

"There was nothing to my satisfaction," he snapped.

She paused, no longer looking at him. "I agree. Everything we knew remains in the city."

"That makes no sense," Zephon said. "What did you come back to? If your people used to know their ways, why not return to your former homes and rediscover it?"

"My grandfather believes they were burned." But she sounded like she did not like to talk about it. "The black city has a library. It contains everything they recorded."

"A pile of dust and leather."

She shook her head. "The books in my grandfather's house were taken from the city as my ancestors left. The First Ones—before they left for war—somehow preserved them. The knowledge they must have acquired…"

The girl still kept her eyes down. Zephon's own eyes narrowed. Finally his ears caught the faint tone he could not place. _Guile._ So the child of the moors was not so naïve.

He sprang, up and over, already airborne before the harkbus fell into the grass. Zephon's claws dug into the branch and he wrenched himself up, to stand on the branch in front of her. Niamh yelped, scrabbling at the trunk to keep her balance.

_That was not as effortless as it should have been_…he needed to find a deer. But first he smirked down at her, his fangs just visible.

"You must think yourself incredibly cunning, knowing I would find your grandfather a useless idiot."

_And be so enraged I would demand you take me to the city. _

Anger, sharp and fast, flashed in her gray eyes. She said something in a rush – she had slipped back into her native tongue. Realizing her mistake, she paused, shifting through her lessons to piece together her thoughts. "I cannot see a future for my people. They are stagnant, and overly content to stay as they are."

"You don't see the future."

"_Ní gá dom a!_" she snapped. "I see the present. I've seen your land. I know what's beyond the sea. We traded with your cities centuries ago – we must have had more than this."

_Oh you pretty little idiot. _Zephon knew history's cycles. Whatever their pride for the First Ones, he doubted they considered the humans anything but serfs. Nor had he ever read of her island in any text. He had no idea what sort of Nosgoth she saw. Nosgoth was torn apart by war, stained with scorched fields and rotting battlegrounds.

"What do you even hope to find there?" he asked.

She shrugged, fiddling with a copper bracelet. "Anything. Everything. Something to get us across the sea." She looked up. "Something to get you back home as well."

He laughed. Back home to an execution more like. But he had wondered about the city since she first spoke of it. Even if her grandsire was useless, the First Ones were advanced. More advanced, he wagered, than the humans in Nosgoth. The island was larger than he had imagined though, and he had no idea where to find their derelict city.

"I doubt your father would just let you ride off with me."

As if the man could stop him. But Zephon preferred a bed and fire to wet leaves and rain. These people fought demons; killing a score of their number would likely not drive them away in fear. Thus, he was less inclined to be…himself.

Niamh smiled up at him. "My father will be gone soon, with our best fighters. The Dearg-Dul were spotted – several times a year we push them back."

"Why not kill them all?"

"We would lose more people," she said, looking confused. "But my father will be gone for several days at least. He thinks they saw you and grew bolder."

Humans were so short-sighted. Even if it did bleed their ranks, it was final_. Allowing a thorn to stay in one's side, ridiculous._

"Why do they care about me?"

"They drink demon blood and think it makes them stronger," she answered. "The chance to bleed one like Kain?"

The thought of humans wanting his blood was perverse enough to be funny. Regardless, he now had a chance to find the city and still have a roof. He was confident he could avoid most of the demons – he was the Spider Lord after all. Niamh's face was expectant. If he could not find the Seer, perhaps he could draw her out. Would she save her protégé if a hoard of demons erupted from the city's gates?

He gave his assent and the girl laughed in excitement. "Now that's settled, I'm off to hunt," he said.

He jumped from the branch, landing cat-soft in the ground. _Your neck is far too appealing. _

* * *

"You lose my army but retake our lost castle. Am I to beat you or reward you?"

Sandulf lounged in a wide leather chair, his glacier-blue eyes unwavering. He was almost fifty but looked no less capable of destroying the vampire scourge. Alaric, who sat across from him, took after his father, tall and lean. Sandulf was stockier but carved from rock. At an age when many men softened, he resembled a weathered cliff face that broke spines instead of ships.

His uncle's prized hounds lay at his feet, Jager and Tier. The shaggy black dogs were House Raginmar's own creation, bred for centuries to fight and hunt. Long ago they had been a cross of wolf, deerhound, and mastiff. Now they were tall and fast but rippling with muscle. Sandulf kept their aggression in check only with discipline. Alaric had seen them tear out the throats of vampires. Now they seemed on edge, even if Sandulf's presence kept them quiet.

Alaric never rested easy around his uncle. The man looked a savage hound himself, from the lupine slant of his brow to the smile that carried more threat than sincerity.

Galvira sat behind him, her face blank and her skin pale as milk against her blue dress. He worried for her – perhaps that added to his unease now. Two weeks since Nachtholm fell, she had become a recluse, staying in Lord Dracosa's room and wandering the halls at night. She treated him with affection, but even her touch seemed meant to distract him from her misery.

At first he stayed quiet. The horrors she had experienced as a captive…even he had no desire to ask unless it would help ease her mind. But the days dragged on. She slept most of the late morning and afternoon. She roused in time to sup with him, though she ate little.

One night she had woken him to make love, her lips and teeth on fire and her hands clawing at his back, but even then she seemed driven rather than happy.

Then there had been that matter of the former slaves.

He still felt bile in his mouth. He had saved those wretched servants from being a vampire's decanter and they repaid him with a plot to take the castle for themselves, invite back the vampires, and hope loyalty would save them. Galvira had learned of it and he executed them accordingly. She knew them better than he did

As Alaric had remained quiet, his uncle continued. "You served your purpose nonetheless. The ends justify the means," Sandulf growled, scratching his swarthy beard.

"My purpose?" Speaking pulled at the scabbed cuts across his face, from where the vampire had clawed him. Alaric's eyes narrowed. Sandulf had ordered him to take Nachtholm if possible, and keep the focus off their forces marching to Aztiluth.

Sandulf looked at him with a derisive smirk. "To buy time while I searched for the staff."

He had mentioned nothing of this. His uncle had always shadowed his plans, but now Alaric felt his temper rising. Most of his men had fought to their deaths and it was a _distraction_?

Alaric noticed the staff leaning against the chair. A curious thing, especially in Sandulf's study – it had a plain shaft with a snake curling around it, the wood red and yellow. Its mouth was affixed to a large purple orb. It looked ancient but meticulously preserved. His stomach churned, adding to his unease. He walked on a glass road.

"You have heard of Moebius the Time Streamer?" his uncle asked.

Who had not heard of Moebius? The sorcerer singlehandedly brought vampires to the brink of extinction, until the demon incarnate Kain murdered him. He carried—

Sandulf smiled like a wolf over a carcass. "I always thought it strange he had no grave. Kain cut his head off. But no one buried his body." He ran a hand along the wooden serpent, easing it as carefully as its live counterpart into his hands. The bitter, energy-ridden scent hit Alaric's nose. Magic.

"It took months but we found it, in a collapsed citadel near the pillars. We found a skeleton, and this." His eyes sharpened as a smile twitched at his mouth. "But I have not tested it."

Alaric's nerves fired just as Sandulf's grip twisted on the shaft and the orb sprang to life, an amethyst glow that hummed with ancient energy. A scream went off in his ear.

Galvira went rigid as her back arched. She gasped in pain and—Alaric choked—fangs curved past her lips.

_The vampire at Nachtholm determined to grab her…her tears, holing up in a darkened bedchamber, stalking the halls at night—_

Sandulf lunged, grabbing her by her hair and dragging her over his lap. She continued to hiss and cry, her arms spasming and her jaw locked.

"You stupid bastard!" Sandulf grabbed a knife from his boot and pressed it to her throat, his other arm holding her down, the staff clenched in his hand. "How in seven fucking hells could you not know she'd become a vampire's whore?"

He had no coherent reply, only sputtering thoughts. "She's the reason we got into the castle. She won us Nachtholm."

"You were deluded."

"She was taken! She had no choice!" He was almost to his feet but stopped when he saw the blood bubble around the knife, trailing down her neck. The hounds whined.

Sandulf snorted. "There is always a choice, idiot. Do you think Isana did not have a choice?"

Alaric realized it then – the raw, pained fury his uncle carried under hate-hardened scars. His beloved sister, turned vampire.

"I'll find Isana, uncle," he pleaded. "I'll give her mercy." He just wanted him to unhand Galvira. Whatever creature that writhed before him, she still looked like his wife.

"Mercy?" Sandulf snarled as he laughed. "I'll lower that bitch inch by inch into the sea. She betrayed us all."

Alaric froze. Isana was noble and beautiful. A mother and wife, she was abducted and forced to be Zephon's whore. She could no more reject the corruption than reverse her vampirism. Death was the only mercy he could give her. And Sandulf laughed, ragged and deep in his throat.

"Stupid boy. Isana went to Zephon as a willing harlot. Do you not think his every victory against us was because of her meddling?" His eyes gleamed feverishly. "She gave herself to the demons, then returned to take Ghislain as well."

That was wrong. _Ghislain died months after Isana vanished._

"I've been to his crypt, uncle."

"You saw a stone and call it a corpse?" He barked a scornful laugh. "She disgraced our family for years while she fucked him. Even their marriages couldn't separate them. I was there the night she entered his room, with that spider at her side.

"'Join us, my_ love_,'" he spat the word like a curse. "She seduced him as always. I entered and she turned her witch eyes on me. 'Little brother, come away with me.'" His gaze had retreated back into his story. "I called for the guards but the hellspawn vanished through the window. Could we tell anyone that? You should feel lucky – hiding away this blight allowed your abomination of a mother to have you."

Ice dug into Alaric's chest. _Abomination…_

He felt sick. "Was my mother _their_s?"

"What do you think? She was the only person I ever was glad to see become a vampire. So I could kill her. Until you took that away too."

Alaric saw now what he had always known but never acknowledged. His uncle was a maddened dog, twisted from a life of hate and rage. And now he raised the dagger to plunge it into Galvira's heart.

Sandulf's love of torturing vampires, his willingness to sacrifice legions if it meant destroying Kain – acts only accepted in war. What had Alaric's mother said, so many years ago?

"_Your father is the kind of leader you should be, sweet one. He defends his people first."_

"_But should he not destroy the vampires, to protect his people?" Alaric had asked. _

_She smiled, her hazel eyes gentle. "No ruler can avoid death in war. Fighting for peace is noble…but if it costs every man to achieve, where is the peace in that?"_

_He who fights monsters must be careful he himself does not become a monster_, so said the philosopher. Sandulf was a monster but he was on their side. He kept their family alive, and perhaps he was the only one with enough cruelty and soullessness to match the vampires. But Alaric could not let that demon kill his wife.

He threw himself at Sandulf. "Run Galvira!"

The hounds leaped at him with fangs bared. But Alaric knew the beasts. He rammed Jager in the snout with his hand as he skidded to one knee. Tier lunged and he gave it his useless broken arm, covered in a thick bracer. Pain stabbed his forearm but he kept going. His uncle jumped to his feet, Galvira in front of him as a shield, the staff across her chest. Sandulf was a warrior and expected Alaric to attack. Instead, Alaric dove for the staff, momentum letting him wrench it from Sandulf's grip and hurl it at the wall.

Paws slammed him to the ground, his head cracking on stone, and Jager went for his throat. Breath and saliva burned his flesh – and then the weight was off, and the dog crashed into the chair with a yelp.

Galvira kicked the second dog, driving it off his arm. She looked at him, her dove-gray eyes now rings of silver. Then she sprang away. He heard the shatter of glass as she dived out the window. It was not suicide – she had to remember there was a rooftop directly below.

Alaric staggered to his feet, just in time for the air to explode from his lungs as Sandulf's fist smashed into his abdomen.

"Treacherous wretch! The taint survives in you, throwing yourself to these vampires."

Alaric fell to his knees and a kick hammered into his ribs. One hound growled from Sandulf's side, waiting for the order to tear his throat out.

A flash of red at the corner of Alaric's sight – Moebius's staff, discarded and latent. Sandulf paused for the briefest moment. Alaric guessed he was deciding if his nephew should die by his hand or his dog's. The hesitation saved his life.

Alaric seized the staff and swung. It caught his uncle at the ankles and he staggered for balance. Pure survival fueled him as Alaric struggled to his feet, his side screaming and his stomach throbbing. He sprinted across the study, Tier at his heels and Jager recovering from its crash into the chair.

He slammed the door behind him, just as the canine weight collided with the wood. Now to escape the castle before Sandulf called his entire garrison. They followed their mad wolf to the gates of hell.

The staircase nearly tripped him as he clung to banister with his good arm. Blind memory got him to the stables. There was no time to saddle a horse – he grabbed the bridle at the nearest stall and unlatched the door. A brindle stallion snapped at him. Sandulf's favorite horse, of course. The creature glared as he pulled the bridle over its gray ears. Alaric was grateful it did not bite his fingers off.

His left arm throbbed. He could die from a broken neck or by Sandulf's sword. He would choose the broken neck. He led the horse out of the stall, looking for a mounting block. There was no way he could vault onto the stallion's bare back with his arm.

He came face to face with a wiry man, his patchy beard recognizable. Reks, his family's stablemaster. His friend. Sandulf's underling.

"Give me a leg-up and get the hell out of here," Alaric said.

The man's dark eyes took in his bloodied shirt.

"Did he finally snap?"

Alaric nodded, lips pressed tight in pain.

"I have a family to feed," Reks said, "You held me off with your sword and stole the horse."

The man gave him a leg-up. The gray and brown stallion danced beneath him, excited or furious from the nighttime visit. Alaric guided him out, using his legs to steer. The moment he was out of the stables he kicked the horse into a canter, then a gallop. Bless his childhood spent riding bareback – the stallion's ground-eating stride was rough, but he stayed on.

The moonlight was a blessing and a curse – it was bright enough to see and be seen. It was a quarter of a mile before he saw her. Galvira stood to the side of the road, silent as a ghost. Her simple traveling dress was torn from the window glass and dried blood mottled her chest and neck.

He still had his sword. His wife was still a curse on the world. Even though he had stayed his uncle's hand – in one rash, suicidal moment – it did not mean the world had a place for vampires. And she had kept it secret. Though he understood why, somehow that hurt most of all.

Galvira never moved. She leaned forward, her neck bared and covered only with her thick sable hair.

He unsheathed his sword, his bad arm sending stabbing pains into his hand as he gripped the reins. It would be a clean slice, over in an instant.

In strangled memory he remembered the paws, the fangs about to kill him. She could have left then – his death was more than enough of a distraction. Instead she'd fought off both hounds. Somehow, she retained a fraction of humanity.

Or perhaps he could not stand the thought of executing his mother and his wife, whatever their curse.

He galloped past her, sheathing his sword. A few minutes later he slowed the animal to a trot, confident he could hear approaching guards. His ribs ached for rest and the slower pace allowed him time to think. Nachtholm was the safest place. His men followed him, not his mad uncle. Sandulf had a war to fight, north at Aztiluth

And yet, when his uncle did take his vengeance, could Alaric force his handful of men to fight and die? His thoughts brought no answer, only a distraction from the pain.


	24. The City

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 24 – The City**

**Note: My original chapter was growing to stupidly gigantic, so I chopped it up. I think the break will also help the pacing. I blame the long delay on vacation and a new job. As the next chapter is basically written, expect a much sooner update. **

* * *

The walls were stark and black—Zephon squinted, but he could not find individual stones or obvious masonry. As if the First Ones had carved the wall from a mountain. It looked impenetrable except for the massive gate, which gaped wide with scoured wood and an unnatural lean.

"We just walk in?" Zephon eyed the gate, wondering if a more ridiculous decision had ever been made.

"There is no other way." Niamh's jaw was set. "I believe most of the deamhain stay near the ruins, to the back of the city. You could hear them approach?"

_If they materialize out of thin air, no._ The demons from the forest had smelled of moss and smoke. A similar scent lingered here, flecked with salt. A furlong back their horses shuffled in the grass. Ahead—

"Where is the sea?" he asked, inhaling the briny air.

"The other side of the city." She gestured past the buildings, to a darker area at the far wall. "Their harbor."

Except for Niamh's shallow, excited breath and the crashing roll of waves, the land was silent. Not that he believed for a moment it was safe. _Safe is for the ruled, not the rulers. _Raziel had said that, half a lifetime ago.

Niamh stepped through the gateway with tentative steps. A bow, quiver, and saddlebag hung across her back. She claimed her people made occasional, cautious excursions to the city's edge to find more steel.

As they walked down the main street, under the midday sun, Zephon wondered why he was not more wary of a nest of demons. He seldom took unnecessary risks unless the game was rigged. This place was a lucid dream. He was wandering through a forgotten city alongside a human he did not intend to kill. Madness he might say, but for all the madness of Nosgoth.

They had left before dawn. Her father Ciaran rode off the day before with two score men, leaving his son in command for the several days he would be gone. Zephon had snorted with laughter when the girl ensured her brother's cups were never low. Just enough so the whelp slept like a rock.

Zephon kept the hood of his cloak low; the sun had burned away the clouds. Niamh wore a deerhide coat. It felt right to have a sword at his hip again. Upon her first plans to travel to the city, he had helped himself to what remained of their weapon stocks. He picked a longsword and dirk. The blades were light and sharp, with a pattern along the steel. Lapis inlay decorated the handle. Niamh had called the blades watered steel, a craft of the First Ones. Under his sleeves he carried two smaller daggers. One could never have too many.

_What a sad excuse for a forbidden city._ Buildings dotted along the sides of the street, empty, chipped, and charred. Strange, it did not look so very different from the older cities in Nosgoth. The stone was darker and they seemed to have a fetish for balconies, but otherwise it was hardly alien. Weeds cloaked many of the structures' lower levels. The road, however, was thick and unmarred. Armies could travel fast on this.

He froze when a sound skittered past his ears. A soft scraping, still a ways off. He closed his eyes and reached with his other senses. Four footfalls, one body.

Zephon could have bolted for the gate and probably make it in time. But the human could not. And Kain's fifthborn did not flee like a frightened deer.

"Are we close?" he asked.

If she bolted, the creature would go for the kill. Until he knew how easily it could eviscerate him, he would not flush it out unless he was in a position to kill. Niamh pointed at a spire-topped building to their far right. It towered over the others by three stories, with a balcony high above its giant doors.

They left the main road, Zephon setting the pace at a march. The footfalls sped up as well, still too far off for the girl to hear. Not for long though.

Then the tension snapped. The creature charged. He could hear it leap onto something just as they reached the door.

"Open it!" he snarled, brandishing his sword.

She could hear the beast now, and fumbled to open the doors. They were made of wood and steel, and covered in blue marbling.

"It's locked!" She was breathing faster and stringing her bow.

Zephon growled and faced the doors. The frame was askew, as if a cataclysm had rocked the foundation. It created a small gap between the doors and he saw an iron bar jamming it shut.

He could also hear the demon's breath now, rasping past a lolling tongue. The tawny demon topped a low roof farther down his left, across the road. A reptilian fringe encircled its neck. It leapt to the road and charged like a boar.

The balcony was directly above him—too high to jump in his underfed state. But the girl could be a useful distraction.

"Don't move until I do," he growled.

Before she could reply or he could reconsider his chivalry, he dragged her behind him. The only way to ensure it went for him. Turel or Dumah would have charged and grappled the demon to the ground. He did not have the same raw strength. Instead he waited, bracing as it rushed closer, counting the moments until he could see each of its dripping teeth.

In his younger years hunting had been a sport, and a riled boar was dangerous to a fledgling vampire. An instant before it mauled him, Zephon sprang and vaulted over its back.

But it was not a boar. Its neck jerked around as he twisted over it, and its jaws snapped down on his forearm. Fangs hit metal—the demon clamped down on the dagger, and only its upper fangs dug into his flesh. But Zephon was already driving his sword into the base of its skull.

The demon dropped with a choked gag, sliding across the stone road. Zephon crashed along with it, his arm still stuck on its fangs. Niamh did not move fast enough. Fear slowed her and they collided in a bloody, scaly pile.

The girl shoved herself out from under the demon's shoulder with a groan. Zephon hissed in pain as she pried open its jaws. Blood immediately coursed from the gashes in his arm. They weren't too horrible though. Only the upper fangs had drawn blood.

"Are you alright?" Her voice held a tremor.

He nodded as he pressed his fingers into the punctures, waiting for them to clot. In the meantime he studied the balcony above. It was fifteen feet high, over twice his height. The closest roof was too far to jump. All the building had were small engravings up the sides.

Zephon studied his nails. They were too long and starting to bother him. Usually Isana trimmed them but given his ill-timed relocation…well, nevermind that, they would be broken down soon enough.

He took a running jump at the wall and drove his talons into the deepest etching. One nail split on impact and he snarled in pain. But Zephon was a good climber—all his brood was. Wincing, he centered his weight and carefully crawled up. He only had a few feet, a blessing for his tortured fingers.

Finally he grabbed the bottom of the balustrade and with one final pull he hauled himself up. For a moment he was spent—he rolled over the banister and onto the stone balcony. Quickly he looked to his nails. They were chipped and shortened, with several had broken down to the quick. Though he was glad none had torn off entirely, he winced. Like a cat, he was more secure with a pair of talons.

"Don't leave me down here!" Niamh yelled as loud as she dared.

Zephon snorted. She had no problem marching into a demon-infested pit as long as he was there to play the knight. He rose and leaned on the bannister, smirking down at her angry fear.

"I need to unbar the door," he said. "Stay there and shut up."

The balcony's door was formed from two panes of blue glass. Or what looked like glass. The faintest flickers of magic remained, any ward long weakened. Despite its age, the glass bore no cracks, only a slender handle Zephon turned. He stepped into the athenaeum.

The landing had no stairs. Below, the room's farthest corners were shadowy even to his eyes. He jumped, landing softly at the bottom. The double doors, tucked under the landing, were barred with a thick piece of steel. On closer inspection, Zephon saw it was melted into the doorframe.

That plan dashed, he prowled the room for something to haul her up. To one side of the room he saw it—a long, heavy curtain. Ridiculous to think it was not a dusty scrap by now. _If these ancients spent all their time enchanting furniture, no wonder they died off._

A thick cord hung to the side of the drapery. His eyes adjusted fully from the sunlight now and for the first time he noticed the dark, tangled shapes scattered across the floor. Not shapes. Skeletons, human ones, all clothed as brightly as the day they died.

The room was not even dusty. Zephon breathed deep, finding the lingering scent of magic. Like a field during a lightning storm. Some kind of stasis preserved the room. The bones were perfectly bleached, with none of the dusty crumbling he found in ancient tombs.

Studying the rest of the room, he saw it had marble shelves built into the walls, filled sparsely with books. It was a large building, but hardly a large library. The rest of the floor was pale, uncovered marble with inlay. Except for a large globe in the center of the room, mounted on a pedestal. It glittered like a dark diamond even in the darkness. Green veins laced over the black stone. He was about to touch it when he remembered the girl.

Best not let her attract more demons.

He climbed up the drapery cord to cut it near the top, and once he landed he looped it over his shoulder. With that, he jumped to the landing. The shelves flanking the door formed a natural ladder. Back on the balcony, he spied the girl below, studying the dead demon.

His senses keened. The spar and climb had agitated his dry-mouthed thirst. It would be so easy to dive like a falcon and break every bone in her back. He hated the mildness that had softened him since he washed up here. He was slower, weaker. The lack of human blood, he guessed. The only time he had felt the fire return was when he gorged himself on the demon. But the subsequent retching made that an unsavory proposition.

"Take its teeth if you want a memento," he called down.

Niamh twisted around, relief and confusion battling on her face. Zephon uncurled the cord and let it drop.

"The door is sealed. It's a rope or nothing."

As if the girl would choose anything other than putting walls between her and a city of maneaters. No sooner did he help her over the balustrade then she was pattering off past the glass door.

"Where are the stairs?" she asked, peering over the landing.

"The architect forgot." He walked up behind her. "This place was not made with you in mind."

She glanced at him. "Can you get us back up?"

He wanted to explore the globe. Without answering, he hooked an arm around her waist and jumped to the floor below. The girl had little grace—she clung to his arm like a terrified cat. Her heartbeat pounded in the empty hall.

"I can't see!" she whispered.

At first he wondered what was wrong with her eyes. Then he remembered how humans had to light everything like a feast day. He saw a gloomy room, she saw pitch black.

"There's no reason to be scared of the dark," he said. Not here at least.

"I'm not scared. I don't like being blind."

_Ah_, he remembered, her kind had no phantoms—or vampires—lurking in the dark. Just things they could trip over. He dragged her with him as he walked to the window, her stumbling steps echoing off the marble. It seemed almost profane to make so much noise in this hall. She staggered over one of the skeletons, scrambling for balance.

"What was that?" she whispered.

_I hope you like surprises, but I think not. _

Finally he reached the drapery. He had cut the cord to use as a rope but he could still draw the curtain back and catch it on the cord's hook. He looked away as he yanked it back—the sunlight that flooded in would have scalded his eyes. Half of the room erupted in light. Strangely, the blue glass did not refract the same color onto the floor.

Niamh's gasp snapped away his attention. Sprawled across the marble, the skeletons grinned in the pale light. The girl's hand covered her mouth. Her eyes flicked to the melted iron bar. He voiced her thoughts.

"They sealed themselves inside," he said.

The room's magic did not extend to living things. Niamh knelt beside a skeleton.

"It must have been after the First Ones were destroyed," she said, her voice steady. "They were fleeing the demons…perhaps that is why we have so few of their books"

The bones were perfectly preserved. If they were even two centuries old they would show signs of decay. _More magic._ The room must have preserved everything inanimate. Their robes were embroidered and immaculate. Necklaces peeked from inside their exposed breastbones; rings loosely encircled their fingers. These were not slaves.

Zephon continued to ponder as he walked to the other side of the room and pulled back the second drapery, filling the room entirely in light it had not seen in centuries.

It was more impressive in better light. The floor was white marble, inlaid with green and blue metalwork. The books filled shelves on two walls, on either side of the ledge leading to the balcony. All were above eye-level, with the lower shelves bare.

The athenaeum had none of the rough authority of the Sanctuary of the Clans, nor the opulence of Ragnarok. It felt less like a library and more of a forum. The place where the First Ones kept all their knowledge. What good was knowledge with no discourse?

Several piles of wood dotted the floor. Ladders, he guessed. They had destroyed all escapes. _Did they starve? Or was it mass suicide?_ The skeletons did not offer their opinion, for all the girl studied them.

"I did not slay a demon so you could gawk at the dead," he said.

It seemed the girl was thinking rather than mourning. She looked up and finally noticed the books. Dropping her pack and bow, she dashed for the shelves.

A humming, ever so soft, burrowed into his ears. Zephon looked at the globe, halfway across the room. Words of caution fluttered in his mind. Magic was unpredictable and deadly, even to a vampire. But everything else yearned for him to touch it.

"_Cac!"_ The crash snapped away his attention.

Niamh pulled herself off the floor and slumped against the shelf. She had tried to squirrel her way up the empty shelves to reach the higher books. Like most humans, she was too clumsy to keep her balance. A hacking sound, and a vulgar splattering.

_Stupid—_

Zephon froze as the scent scraped across his senses. That unmistakable sensation that made his mouth salivate.

Niamh looked up and wiped her mouth, her lip already swelling from where she'd bitten it. A faint trace of red welled over the surface.

Zephon thought himself a creature of hard-learned control. He could grapple with hunger. He had beaten down the urge to drain the girl's brother after the demon gored him. But that was days ago. Days with only a deer to stifle the thirst that dogged him everywhere.

She knew. Perhaps she had known when she'd first tossed him a goat—that no matter how much she distracted him with bleating vermin, he wanted nothing more than his fangs in her throat. Her eyes were wide gray disks; her breath had lodged in her throat. Then she bolted, and whatever failing restraint he possessed snapped under the instincts of a predator more savage and vile than any wolf.

She dived behind the black globe—how in nine hells did she think it would shield her?

Zephon sprang, momentum hurling him forward. But she had rolled against the pedestal, under the large stone. He meant to vault over it mid-leap, any regard for its magic torn away. His hands hit the ice-cold surface, and the world shattered.

* * *

He had ridden past Nachtholm. The stallion's temper was dulled and its sides were slick with sweat. Alaric felt no better. His broken arm felt like a dead weight. The rocking pain that came with each stride was a steadfast companion.

Alaric had stopped at the castle to hastily explain his uncle's madness. In this version his uncle snapped and branded him a traitor. Galvira died in the ensuing fight. It had taken half an hour of terse words to convince his second, Joren, that he needed to move on.

Soon Sandulf's men would arrive at Nachtholm and demand he accompany them back to Sandulf's estate. If Nachtholm's garrison refused, his uncle would send a battalion. Alaric had a handful of men—there was no chance they'd withstand a siege. So he left. If his uncle died fighting the vampires, he would return and preserve what was left. If he won on account of the Timestreamer's staff…hopefully he would be in a more forgiving mood.

Eventually Joren, ever the pragmatist, complied and saw him off with food and water. He wanted to give him a fresh horse but Alaric refused. The stallion was recognizable to any of Sandulf's men.

Instead he rode for Farnfeld, his father's hunting lodge. His father was a decade in the ground and they had abandoned the lodge years ago, but he knew from scouts it still stood. It also fell within Rahabim territory but as far as he knew the vampires rarely made it past the Aztiluth River half a mile from the estate.

Sandulf knew they could never defeat an army of vampires in open combat. He utilized the land. The Aztiluth River made it easy for his army to outmaneuver the vampires. Once, Alaric had baited a Dumahim force near the river and flooded it. That had been his proudest moment, even if was Sandulf's tactic. The river made it easy to disengage—if the water was only chest-high, they did not even need boats. It also helped hide Sandulf's hand-picked legion, a quarter of his men who could mobilize in hours and disappear just as fast.

He first saw the chest-high walls just after the sun had sunk below the treeline. The weather stones were swathed in moss and lichen. Near one wall he could make out the crumbled remains of a chicken coop. Behind that he saw the stables, mostly intact. The lodge itself—Alaric pulled the horse to a stop. Light illuminated the single window and doorframe.

His hand was on his pommel when the doors flew open. Two men filled the threshold, clad in furs and cloaks. He could just make out their faces in the backlight—rough, plain, and wary as wolves.

"This is ours, fuck off!" one growled.

Alaric bit back a hiss of fury. _Theirs?_

"I am Alaric von Raginmar. This is my estate."

The taller man snorted and gestured with a small crossbow. "My _apologies_ little lord, we had no idea we were in the esteemed house of a fucking noble."

Bandits. Ruffians. Alaric ground his teeth. It was scum like these who dragged humans down into the vampires' clutches. Self-centered and crude, taking advantage of the chaos to claw out a meager spot of power. But he could not take on an uncertain number of men with a broken arm and no second. Instead he pulled off his signet ring and tossed it to them.

"I have no quarrel with you."_ Survival_, he thought. "The Rahabim are on the move; it would be an extra pair of eyes if you let me share your fire. Of course you have full guest right, as long as you need."

Harsh laughter. But one bandit had caught the ring and studied the insignia. _Please let them be more interested in a hot fire, just for one night._

"Seems like we have guest right anyway," he growled, shifting the crossbow. "Your metal. All of it. Lambsheim still stands."

_Not for long._ The village was looming closer to Raziel's border. Alaric gave his assent. Unbuckling his sword, he tossed it to them, as well as the pouch of gold Joren had handed him.

"You can stable the horse then." Finally the crossbow man grinned. "Be merry! We didn't kill you on sight."

Alaric swallowed his bitter fury and dismounted.

Once inside the lodge, however, they were pleasant enough. Both had been mercenaries for Lord Dracosa five years ago. Both had family in Lambsheim.

Alaric sat closest to the fire—the ruffians made sure he had nowhere to run if the night soured. And it seemed it just might. The closest man's eyes had narrowed.

"You're wearing another ring. Give it."

His wedding ring, on the hand of his broken arm. It had hurt too much to remove it, not just from his fracture. Alaric could feel it—the moment clicked into place. Alaric had learned through years of combat that such moments emerged in a flash and were gone just as quick. He held up his hand, cringing at the pain. The man, a few cups of wine dulling his instincts, leaned closer.

Alaric dagger was out and stabbing under the bandit's chin. He rammed him with his shoulder, driving him into his companion. They both fell, the first one dying, the second raging. The knife was stuck in the bandit's skull so Alaric grabbed the next closest thing. A fire poker, rusted and rough in his hand. The second man had roared to his feet and unsheathed his sword. Alaric thrust the poker like a rapier, and the bandit's savage block nearly unarmed him. But Alaric had come too far and lost too much to fall to a pair of weak bastards who preyed on humans to feed their families. He swung the iron rod up, in a way no one would with a sword. It connected with the man's skull, sent him reeling. Alaric had the moment to hit him again, and again, until blood sluiced the poker and the bandit collapsed.

His stomach churned. They were scum, but they weren't vampires. He was also sick from his incredulous luck in taking the men down without a sword to his guts. His arm was worse than a broken wing. If he didn't want it permanently ruined, he needed a different way of defending himself. He looked to the crossbow, resting near the fire after its owner had kicked it in the fall. It was unusual. The design was light and small, unlike the heavy things Joren loved. He doubted it had as much power as a true crossbow, but it looked capable of taking down a vampire if the aim was good. And it looked capable of aiming with one hand.

He knew Farnfeld had stores he and the household had not taken with them when they abandoned it. In a corner was a dusty barrel of wine, freshly opened. A stew bubbled above the fire. Alaric picked up the crossbow and tested its weight. It was lighter than he had thought.

He was lucky.


	25. The Past

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 25 – The Past**

* * *

Somewhere far away Zephon's knees cracked against the marble. The world around him was black, except for the green veins that spangled the dark globe.

He stood, leaning against the orb for support, if only because it was the only thing to cling to. The icy surface burned with cold. Looking up, he balked. Someone else stood there. Zephon jerked back but his hands stayed frozen to the black glass.

_The robed creature was milky tan, tall and unnaturally slender, with wider shoulders that made Zephon assume it was male. One hand brushed the globe, its fingers long and delicate, tipped with translucent nails. A crest topped his head, matching the bony protrusions that jutted from his shoulders. His eyes were dark green, almost black, and his voice carried a metallic undertone. _Voice? _His thin lips did not move. _

"_Time remains a loop," the creature intoned in his flanging voice. "The Enslaved jump to fate and reincarnation. They are deluded. Time has no care or plan. It is, and always will be, connected by a thread even we the Hylden have not seen. Instead, we can see but the shadows of what is to come. And now that it has foretold our death, we cannot accept it."_

"_Still adding to our memoirs, Jezal?" the voice came from far away. _

_The ancient—Jezal, as the voice had called him—turned to regard the newcomer. This one's flesh was darker, his hair pale copper, and his chest covered with a breastplate. His limbs were steely and corded_. _His legs were strange; they arced back, like the haunches of a wolf. _

"_Saving them, though my hope is thin." _His lips moved now, and smiled wryly.

"_You've found something?" The armored one sauntered closer._

_Jezal looked back at the black orb, its glowing veins reflected in his eyes. Zephon did not miss the casual stance of the one behind him. Jezal was trying not to look him in the eye._

"_It is only a theory," he said. "We know of our savoir. We know of theirs. Strange they match so perfectly."_

_The warrior was tense as a wary wild thing. "What are you getting at?" _

"_What if they were the same?"_

"_Still impossible." His companion smirked. "You say you're above all this talk of our doom, but you're no better."_

_Jezal's lip curled and he turned on the warrior, one hand still touching the black glass._

"Better_? The magisters created that beastly _Mass _to destroy all of Nosgoth. It only needs an indestructible vessel." His teeth, slightly pointed, bared at the other. "You think I have not guessed who? That curse is cruel genius—breaking them from their false god, turning them into beasts, and giving us the proper vessel to destroy anything left." _

"_You sympathize with those deluded wretches? They've dragged us into a war of religion when we have none! Somehow, those primitive wretches have found a way to defeat us."_

"_The Seer disagrees with the magisters," Jezal mused._

"_She's mad!" the warrior hissed. "She gave herself to the apes to pass on her foresight. She does not see a future with us in it, but loathes any method to circumvent it?"_

"_She understands the paradox."_

_The warrior's golden eyes flashed. "_Paradox?_"_

_Jezal looked bitter. "If a paradox came to be—something existing in two forms, as two points of history collide, what would happen?"_

"_Any time we have tried to trick history we fail at best and die at worst," the warrior said. "It's a tide we cannot outrun." He flashed an acidic grin. "We can only make it more hellish for them."_

"_Yes, Rathar," Jezal spoke slowly, as if to a student. "But what if that tide knew not where to flow? Time cannot accommodate a paradox because it encompasses all futures."_

"_Enough," Rathar said. "I fight; I don't philosophize."_

_For the first time, Jezal smiled. There was affection there. Or what had been once. But soon again his expression soured. Rathar, ferocity softened, touched his shoulder in an unasked question. _

"_The Seer believes the Enslaved will tear the dimensional walls," Jezal said. "That explains why they've built those ridiculous pillars."_

_Rathar looked puzzled, then incredulous. "Those idiots think we will be stopped by a dimensional scrim?" _

"_They are fanatics, not idiots," Jezal bit back. "If they sealed their curse with the pillars it could be centuries until we were free again."_

"_If that comes to pass, we will still return." Rathar's eyes gleamed. "They won't survive their curse, even with immortality. Nosgoth will be ours once more."_

_Jezal's nails scraped against the glass. "If we are locked away for that long, we should not come back at all. We would be twisted shadows."_

"_At least we would be alive," the other said. "But I don't plan on going anywhere." His hands clasped Jezal's shoulders, his voice low and venomous. "I will fight to stay here with every fiber in me. When the time comes, I'll slaughter them all. You can't _hate _them as I do—you have never sired kin; you'll never know how hate _burns_."_

_The pain on the first one's face was clear. Zephon was immersed, but he had enough spare thought to want to bash their heads together. One seemed happy to yield and die. The other was too blinded by rage to think clearly. Sightless hate, it led one to so many foolish things. Like attacking a warrior before he studied his tactics, as he had. The warrior's vow though…Zephon felt wary, despite the millennia that had passed. Could some of them have found a way to remain, even before the rest returned? _

_Jezal turned fully, leaving the glass orb. _

And Zephon was in true darkness. He jolted back, alarmed he was trapped in the void. The movement tore his hands away from the frigid surface. Another crack against the marble floor, this time his skull. The direct light made his eyes water.

A band of pain ran down his forehead and war drums pounded at his temples—not from the floor. As if a muscle had been wrenched and strained before it had fully developed. Gingerly he rose to his elbows, shielding his eyes and twisting away from the sunlight. Feeling strangled, he unclasped the cloak. His head ached with every movement.

_What the fuck?_

They recorded their history in that glass…thing? Perhaps it explained why they had fewer books than the girl had imagined. _The girl_.

His nose was blocked—he snorted, and blood splattered the marble. The bloodlust had faded behind his own pain and revelations.

The creak of a bowstring made him look up. She had used the shelves as a ladder. Niamh crouched on the stairless landing, her bow drawn and an arrow nocked. _Bah_, as if he could not catch an arrow midflight.

"You stayed still in front of a charging demon but not me?" he called up. "I'm flattered."

She stayed where she was. Zephon ignored the arrow and rose. From her stance, he knew she shot at rabbits, not people. Nor had she fled. Doubtless to avoid the demons, but he did not miss her pale eyes flicking from him to the orb. The girl was too obsessed to know fear.

"If I was still going to eat you, you'd already be dead," Zephon said. "You knew what I was when I washed up on your shore."

Logic rarely appealed to a fearful creature, but the girl had a pragmatic streak. Why else had she cajoled a blood-drinking nightmare into being her escort? She unstrung the bow and stood up. Her mouth had stopped bleeding.

"Why are you hurt?" she asked.

"Your friends are a tiring read," he said, rubbing his temples. It didn't help.

Her brow was furrowed. "The Aether Record? I thought it was a—" she groped for the word. "A symbol. A representation of their combined knowledge."

"They evidently grew bored of writing."

She looked as she did that day in the tree—a fixated scholar, undeterred no matter the price. She jumped from the landing. Zephon stepped back, smirking, and was rewarded by her panicked expression before he ducked in and caught her. But the drop made him step back to counterbalance, despite her light weight. He was weakening. Just behind his roaring headache, hunger waited far from assuaged, growling at the scraps of goat and deer it survived on.

Her breath rattled from her chest as he set her down, her body tense as a bowstring. He scowled; she was proving to herself as much as him that he had sheathed his claws.

She walked to the stygian globe, cautious but curious.

"Don't touch it," he growled. His head was no better.

Her breath whistled over her teeth and her shoulders tightened. Bracing herself.

Niamh slammed her hands onto the glass. Her brother would have wrenched her away, as would her father or grandfather. But Zephon was none of these and he waited, curious to see what happened.

Her head snapped up, eyes staring but seeing things long dead. Her featured showed no pain, only a sightless focus. Instantly Zephon was suspicious. He sidled closer, noting her fixed expression, her lips that silently moved.

Clearly the so-called First Ones endured no pains to record their memories. Neither did she to view them, though her mouth was strained in concentration. His mind skittered over possibilities. What had Rathar said—a seer who lied with a human? The girl claimed to know a seer, and herself claimed a second sight.

Niamh shifted, her expression tense. Wordlessly, she took his hand and pressed it to the globe, her fingers entwined. Zephon was about to wrenched his hand back when he realized the black glass was not as cold as when he first touched it. There was no jolt or worsening pain. He only looked up, and saw.

Perhaps the device sensed intention and made the best of his discordant questions. Otherwise, he had no idea why he saw this specific scene. Far away he sensed the girl, her hand still over his. He did not see her.

_Jezal had returned, sometime after. Armor replaced his robe, though he wore it with less careless grace than his warrior companion. The plating was dark cobalt, light and sparse. He wore no helm; blood clotted a cut down his bony cheek. _

_Other figures appeared behind him. Humans, dressed in robes. Jezal looked sideways at his companions._

"_I've sealed the upper level, but I must save my strength. You need to seal the doors."_

_A female stepped closer—Zephon realized she was neither human nor Hylden. Her skin was paler than Jezal's, her crest smaller, and her shoulders had no bony protrusions. Her thin mouth twisted in a frown. _

"_Why would we fear you? I fear my father's people more." Her voice carried a familiar accent._

A halfling. And a seer who lied with a human.

_Jezal's eyes crackled with tired anger. "Because we won't be as we are now," he said, wearily resigned. He was not a fighter. "The sea will protect you from the Mass. But it may be centuries before we return." His hand brushed against the black globe. "You think some of us distrust you now…you cannot know what I've seen in the other realms. Madness, corruption…I fear we will return as twisted vestiges. I will not help them." _

Even if the one who returns is you? _Zephon thought._

_The humans stayed silent. Some tried to look blank. Others tried to look—well, something they tried to pass as loyal. Zephon saw through them. In no way did they want to follow these orders. Even the Halfling. Her head bowed._

"_It will be done, my lord."_

_He touched her cheek. The anger had faded. It was never strong to begin with. Anger was a cousin to hope, after all. He knew his adepts, even if they were human. He had to know they would not give up their newfound knowledge. _Why even try?_ Zephon mused._

_Jezal bade them farewell and left, vanishing from Zephon's vision. The Halfling took his place, a slender hand on the black surface. A man walked up beside her. His ruddy hair was tufted and mussed, but his green robes were immaculate. _

"_He can't expect us to give up all of this. Think of what we could do."_

"_Be as kings?" she replied, an edge to her voice. _

"_Why not, Banfaidh?" he said. For all his coltish youth, his eyes were hard. "The Hylden raised us to what we are. Why can we not do the same for our people?" _

_She looked up. Her expression was torn. Torn between two worlds. Torn by something she knew and they did not. She turned to her companion, her hand leaving the globe, and everything turned black again. _

The shift back to the modern world was less wrenching. He opened his eyes he had not realized he closed. Zephon could guess what had happened after. From the stunned look on the girl's face, she did too. She was breathing harder and sweat touched her crown. Hand still on his, Niamh closed her eyes, and Zephon followed her back into the past.

_The world was a screaming horror. His ears latched onto the distant cries. It was night, and the windows to the sides of his vision flashed a blue-green, as if fire razed just beyond. A woman leaned over the globe, one hand holding a dagger like one who had never drawn a blade in anger. Her robes resembled the ones from before, but grander and gaudy. A heavy necklace hung from her throat, a red jewel refracting the torchlight. _

"_We have no choice." Her voice was broken. "They came in a single blast. How many I cannot count. We've paid for our ancestors' mistake—for taking their legacy, and pretending they were gone. We will pay the debt. Whatever they plan, they will not use this."_

_A shout came from beyond, followed by a rushed cry in that language Zephon still could not follow. The woman's gray eyes were watery. She pushed herself away from the orb. _

The present slid back into focus. Rain had begun to fall, splattering against the windows, dimming the library. He extricated his hand from Niamh's limp grasp and walked to the nearest skeleton. The robes covered most of it, but a now-familiar jewel gleamed inside the ribcage. He plucked it out—a hefty thing, delicately set in silver. Alexandrite, he thought, twisting the jewel against the shadows. Torchlight had made it red, daylight made it green. The girl turned, her face blanched.

"Well, not quite the expected?" He couldn't help his grin. _I was right…partly._ No one left a city abandoned. Even one who claimed a second sight could not refuse the thought of more power. And so her ancestors were a welcome party for the deranged First Ones.

"We did trade with your land." Niamh's eyes focused, sharp and searching. "We would've had a harbor. And this place, and the Aether Record." Zephon nodded. Niamh's eyes narrowed. "She was wrong. This _was_ our city. We took their legacy, fair as anything."

Oh, _this_ was amusing. Had she been born in Nosgoth, her life would have been a world apart. He tossed her the necklace.

"A long-lost family heirloom," he offered.

She studied the stone, undisturbed that it had nestled against a corpse for centuries. She looped the chain around her neck.

"I want you to ask it something specific," he said.

Niamh shook her head. "Give me a moment. It's tiring." She rubbed her forehead, though she hardly seemed as afflicted as he was.

"It seems more predisposed to your mind than mine—" he stopped himself. _Damn. _

He had broken one of his own tenants. Never admit to wanting something another had. That was the fastest road to slavery. But the girl was no politician, he countered.

_Fair enough_. It wasn't like he had a castle to retake. Zephon went back to the skeletons. Two had bloodstains down the fronts of their robes, staining the floor around them in black. None were missing fingers—suicide then, not starvation. This circle had died, while their kin outside were killed or enslaved. An interesting historical antidote…but little more than that.

_I was right, Raziel. That creature that possessed my fledgling was no demon. _But the thought brought him little succor. In the end, it meant nothing. Kain had never passed through this exact room. Zephon doubted he had even explored parts of the city that did not harbor the Sarafan Lord's army. _Am I deluding myself into thinking there's anything beyond my own failure?_

He had wanted to know why Kain murdered his own. Would he fear a return of the creatures? Not if he destroyed them. But if he _banished_ them? Did Kain ever look away from his conquering armies and wonder if history would return, claws bared? But Zephon could not discern anything substantial from those scattered thoughts.

Anything Kain did not want him to know was worth knowing. At least it took the bite out of his current prison.

As for the cave, he'd pieced it together, as fragmented as his knowledge was. Somehow, one of their race had not left when the rest were blasted into another dimension—or Kain had simply done a sloppy job slaughtering them. Zephon thought back to the warrior Rathar, and his bitter promise to stay and continue the fight. He remembered the stories he had read, of priests encountering sinister forces and branding them demons.

The ruins at the edge of the city might give him more clues, but the rain and the flock of demons made it a sour venture.

The girl had curled up near the door, stealing any light she could for the tome in her lap. She nibbled at a piece of dried meat.

Despite rain-dark skies, he knew it was high afternoon. The lowest part of a vampire's activity. Rest was preventable, especially in times of battle, but the demon and globe had weakened him. As he slid to the floor, his back to a wall, rest seemed more appealing than the centuries of knowledge around him. At the very least he could scrap together more strength. And resistance to the idea of tearing her throat out. If he wanted to explore the device without his brain oozing from his nose, he needed the girl alive and able to use it.

_What if you have all the time in the world for that? _The thought made him flinch. What if Kain never planned to retrieve him? The island had food, and shelter. And mysteries. Would even Kain be cruel enough to strand him forever, on this wet little rock? He forced himself not to latch onto the idea—his mind would never let him rest otherwise. As Rahab had mocked once, when the fifthborn found an idea, he chewed it until his jaws bled.

The sound snapped him back. Hoofbeats. He jumped to his feet, just as he heard a shuffling sound, and a wet, furious banging on the door.

"_Niamh!"_

Niamh stood too, her face somewhere between horror and anger. Zephon placed the rough baritone.

"Ronan!" She followed with a furious question in her native tongue.

While the sibs shouted through the door, Zephon sprang for the landing. Outside on the balcony, wincing as the vestiges of rain pattered down, he could see the brother. The young man was drenched and his face was stark with fury. His horse stood nearby.

The girl clambered up after him, leaning over the balcony and yelling something down.

"The demons will kill him before he shouts himself hoarse," Zephon said. _That might be fun to watch._ He hadn't set his steed Gevurah on a slave in years.

"He's an idiot," Niamh said. "He left the village to come after me. He shouldn't _do _that, not with the Dearg-Dul close.

On the edges of his hearing, Zephon thought he heard something stir. Several somethings.

"Join us up here or leave," Zephon called down. "If I recall, the demons have a taste for you." He glanced at the girl. "He does remember they live here?"

"Let my sister go!" Ronan snarled back. The bloody fool was gesturing with a sword now, and one those harkbuses was holstered on his back.

Zephon laughed. "She should let _me_ go, the demanding vixen." He slid up behind her, hands clasping her shoulders, his neck bending until his chin grazed her cheek. "Is she in more danger down there with you or up here with me?"

Even if the boy's grasp of the language was piss-poor, he looked ready to bleed from his ears.

Niamh squirmed away to lean farther over the balcony. She said something; Zephon assumed it was the obvious fact she was safe, and her sib was minutes away from evisceration. Surely she knew the longer he stayed, the less likely he would survive the hour. The footfalls were not far now.

"Lordling, I hear your friends," Zephon added. "I have no intention of fighting them."

Perhaps for the first time, Ronan noticed the demon corpse crumpled near the wall. At least, he remembered the gash on his thigh. The boy still moved with a limp. His sister continued to glare down, jaw set.

Finally her brother heard the approaching slaughter. Just as his horse bolted for the gate.

_Alas, not fast enough. _

The first demon growled from a low roof, about to pounce. A second sprang past, claws screeching on the stones as it raced for the horse. A third appeared in the road, blocking the way. These were different than the demons from Nosgoth. Lizard-like, slender things, built more like cats than boars.

Had Zephon been the boy's brother or father he might have made an effort to drag him out alive. He was not. Had it been a single demon, he might have considered it for the pleasure of killing one of the irritating creatures. But there were three, and Zephon had long been convinced he was not invulnerable.

Niamh was screaming now, rocking against the railing. She had not brought her bow, as useless as it would have been. He had seen that before in humans—instincts propelling them forward, self-preservation reeling them back. He had seen many of them do that when his army had descended upon a village and only a quarter of the inhabitants crossed the river in time.

The boy held up his sword. Useless, of course. The first demon dived at him, claws extended. Ronan yelped, though the sound strangled off as the paw swatted him like a toy. He hit the ground in a roll—desperation made him faster. But his wounded leg could not carry him further, and he staggered to regain his balance. Blood was already running down his chest. The demon paused, a cat playing with a mouse.

"Grab him, please!"

Zephon glanced at the girl. "You mistake me for a knight, sirrah."

Niamh pushed away from the banister. _To get her bow?_ By the time she returned, she would only be annoying their dinner.

But she did not leave. Zephon tore away from the game below, to find her looping a cord over the railing. The cord he had used to pull her up. Somewhere close, Ronan's horse squealed as the second demon brought it down.

"Then save me!" she said as she dived over the edge, rappelling like an explorer with a death wish.

There was not enough cord to reach the bottom—she dropped several feet and stumbled to find her balance.

Zephon doubted the girl's sanity. Then he cursed her. She knew he needed her to use the First Ones' device. _The little witch. _

The first demon was close enough to the balcony that Zephon could leap over it. His sword was out, his weight behind it, as it crunched between the demon's bony shoulders. It fell with a squawk, throwing Zephon to his knees as it pitched sideways.

The third barreled toward the vampire. Zephon's sword was still in the first demon. He went for his daggers, forcing himself to think _how_ and not_ if _he would get out of this alive.

He lunged and grabbed the boy by his tangled hair, dragging him before the demon. Then he shoved him to the side—a predator always goes for the moving target. Zephon slashed at its throat as it swerved, cutting deep enough to feel the pull as the blade snagged on its trachea.

This ridiculous act of his wasn't going so badly—

His moment of victory died as the second demon leapt at him from a low roof. The beast had abandoned the horse while he dealt with the third. Zephon twisted and jumped, but wheezed as its scaly shoulder smashed into his chest.

He landed hard on his back, his shoulder blade clicking. _Not completely healed after all…_ He hissed as acidic burned down his back. The road was covered in wet stones and tiny pools. The fall had knocked a blade from his grip. Zephon kicked wildly, pain driving away all coordination. One foot connected with its bony ribs, one knee with its concave stomach.

The demon reared back, hacking a glob of wet saliva. Then it struck again. Its serrated maw snapped at his windpipe—Zephon writhed and punched its snout hard enough to save his jugular, but not enough to save his flesh.

An explosion tore the air and eviscerated his ears. The world was ringing. The demon jerked up, startled. Zephon gave it an eye full of steel.

Niamh stood a dozen paces away, the harkbus in her arms. She had taken it from the fallen human. The shot had completely missed the demon, but the sound was enough to distract it. She dropped it with a heavy clang.

Zephon kicked the dying creature off him, its blood splashing into his eyes before he lunged to his feet. His back burned, head throbbed. He was drenched in brackish carmine—the stuff was coy and acidic to his nose.

This was hardly the stuff of legends. Up close, the demons were little more than skinny, undernourished lizards. Nothing like the Silenced Cathedral.

The girl had stepped in front of her brother. Even through the heady demon blood, Zephon could smell the wounds across the boy's chest. Vampires hungered hours, not minutes after a battle though; the adrenaline and war song numbed actual thirst. But sometimes instincts were treacherous. The gash across his throat wasn't closing.

_I could die._ The thought made him chuckle with disbelief, but that only made the blood flow harder. He was unsteady on his feet, head still swimming.

Niamh crept up to his side, looking like a deer about to bolt. "You can have the horse," she said.

The boy's horse sprawled further down the road, its neck broken. Zephon tottered to it. It was animal blood, but there was a lot of it. The girl latched onto his arm, as if he were about to collapse. He was too focused on pinching his throat closed to shake her off.

"I thought you were dying when I saw your neck," she murmured.

_I already am, my dear_, he wanted to say, but thought better of widening the gash.

All he saw was the dead horse. He did sink to his knees then, as he pulled its head closer. He had to draw on the artery; the heart no longer pumped, but the body was warm enough to still be pliant. At last, when he was starting to notice how weak and wretched the stuff tasted, he felt the tingling burn of his throat closing and back mending. The pounding in his skull finally quieted.

Niamh stayed beside him, morbidly curious. He rounded on her.

"Do that again and I will beat you to death with your severed arm."

She wasn't the cowering sort—she had never witnessed a vampire in a full rage. She did step back.

"But you killed them."

"_You think it was easy? You stupid child!_" He was speaking in his natural tongue but he assumed she got the gist.

She had not thought at all, the idiot. _No…not precisely_. She had been willing to let the demons scare off her brother, the moments before the horse bolted. She had not wanted him eaten. Then she threw Zephon's obsession with the past against her ability to use the globe. _Damn you_, he thought to himself. He had tossed his own cards to the wind.

A sound scuffled behind him "Don't touch my sister," Ronan said, his accent mangling the language.

Zephon spun on his heel and backhanded him across the jaw. The boy went down. A light touch, all things considered. Damn fool was lucky to still have all his fingers.

"Do you know how many lives I've _saved_?" Zephon snarled. "Luck always runs out."

The boy groaned but thought better of countering.

"Thank you," his sister said. He supposed cracking the boy's jaw was preferable to tearing his throat out and drinking from his windpipe. Niamh regarded him solemnly.

"Ask anything and I will try to find it in the Aether Record," she said. "You believe…the Enslaved were your ancestors?"

She was more perceptive than she looked. "Ancestors of a sort," he bit out. But she had set his mind wandering again, and rage rarely followed along.

There were too many similarities between the Enslaved and the ancient vampire—Zephon wracked his memory for the name—_Janos_. Janos Audron. He had assumed the stories of Janos' wings were figurative, or peasant superstition. Humans painted horns on everything.

But Janos sired Vorador, and Vorador, as gruesome as he looked, had once been human. Jezal had mentioned a curse. Perhaps the humans had unknowingly been correct. _A curse that turned them into monsters_…Zephon almost wanted to laugh. Did he owe this race his very existence?

The brother had climbed to his feet, keeping his distance. Niamh turned and spoke, and they trilled on in their native tongue. Finally the brother nodded, eyes hilariously full of loathing, and limped to the gates.

"He will go find the horses and wait for us."

"Making a wounded man hike a furlong?"

"He should not have come in the first place," she said.

Were he in a better mood he might have chuckled. Instead, Zephon's ears prickled. More creatures stirred, still far but waking.

"You hear them, don't you?" Her words were tense.

Zephon nodded. Ah, choice. Return to the forum for gods knew how long, or head back to the village.

"I want to come back," the girl said. "But my people need to know. If I get back before my father, I could make some of them see."

He doubted any would see the importance she saw in their history. Zephon had no idea what she hoped to achieve, city or no. But it was amusing to watch.

The strange girl looked around the city. "We were supposed to have this. If we have a harbor, we can reach your Nosgoth."

_And we would welcome you with open mouths. _Of course she had little hope of rousing a village of cowardly farmers to retake their former city. But it was amusing to watch.

* * *

A ring and a necklace were all it took to make her welcome at a busy inn. They fetched coins and wine and a lack of questions about a lone woman walking through the door.

Galvira had passed through Lambsheim only once before, but the smell of people and smoke drew her from a league away. She carried no gold, only two necklaces and two rings. One was her wedding ring—that would never leave her hand. One was the trinket the vampire had given her. She should have hurled it into the flames. But the engraving behind the jewel stopped her. The Maziere crest, an eagle, wings extended. He had never known what it meant, though Galvira wondered if Erkhard had it with him when he died or found it decades after. She had kept the necklace tucked away, unable to look at it or leave it.

She wasn't cold. She wasn't warm. She felt nothing, apart from the thirst tugging at her throat. Her mad escape from Sandulf had burned away any sustenance left from the dead servant.

Then why had she placed herself amidst a town of good people?

Loneliness, if anything. She could not kill herself. Her one chance had been Alaric but he had spared her. She wanted to curse him. It was almost crueler he had saved her. As unfounded as it was, it made her hope.

No, she could not kill herself. She could only kill others. And she lied to herself more than anyone. Her loneliness was there, but so was hunger. The hunger dominated everything else.

The man squirmed in her grip. He was weak from lack of air, shaking in pain. Perhaps he wondered for a moment why he could not dislodge the witch who straddled him, one hand clamped on his windpipe. Then she had pinned one of his hands to the nightstand with his dagger, which had narrowly missed her clavicle. His other wrist flopped brokenly–she had never known how fragile those bones were.

Perhaps he wondered why he had ever coaxed the solitary woman to join him in his room. Galvira could pretend she cared. But that would be another lie.

She buried her fangs in his throat. They tore through skin, gnashing for an artery. Finally blood pulsed into her mouth, hot and metallic and ecstatic. Too soon it was over, but her throat no longer burned. For a moment she felt almost sated.

The man was a brigand, that was clear. He had said mercenary, but he had no armor, and no mercenary traveled so far from his men. Alaric would have killed him; highwaymen were a blight. Surely that was better.

Another lie. She didn't care who the man was, only that he bled.

He had a good cloak, tossed into a corner. She had left hers in Sandulf's study. A pity; hers had a fur-trimmed hood. The cold scarcely bothered her but a hood was useful. Her dress was torn and mud-stained. Impractical for anything beyond riding. With a curse she took his shirt, jerkin, and trousers. They were loose, but she punctured a new hole in his belt to cinch her waist. The boots were far too large though but no matter. She had kicked off her shoes the moment after she fled Sandulf's study.

Then she remembered. Dawn, six or so hours away. She should have waited until morning. Already a vampire's whore, what was one bandit?

The room was too small—her impulsive pacing gave her no room to think. She couldn't stay here, but sunlight would burn her. Erato had said it would for several decades. At Nachtholm when she'd crept across the yard to meet Alaric, heavily cloaked and covered, she'd worried her eyes were about to melt in her skull.

She looked back at the dead brigand. He was younger than her, unlikely past his mid-twenties. The dead man smelled of horse. Reeked of it. He wouldn't need a horse anymore.


	26. The Slaughter

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 26: The Slaughter**

**Author's** **Note:** Apologies for the long time since updating. New job = hyper-business.

* * *

They had returned to the library to collect their effects. The rain had stopped, and on this island, a clear sky was worthy of celebration. At the least, it was a push to leave before another downpour started.

But Zephon could not help peering at the globe. The black glass gave away no secrets. The green bands were dark and dormant

"Ask it one more question," he said, staying a pace away from the glass. His hands ached to touch it, until he remembered the pain. Of course he had more than one question.

Niamh dropped her pack, one hand on the jewel hanging above her waist, and approached the dark sphere. Zephon supposed it was the least she could do after he saved her from her own suicide.

"Ask it about the Enslaved. Picture—" he was going to say wings, but she had already touched the globe with one hand, took his in the other, and once more jerked them into the memory of the past.

_Black wings fluttered at the corners of his eyes. Zephon spun, only to find himself face to face with…a creature. _

_Its skin was blue. Cyan, like Rahab's eyes. But where his brother's eyes were striking, the creature's flesh was bizarre. Ghoulish even, if not for its regal bearing. _

_Three more stood behind the winged creature; one was female, and all had the muscle of warriors. As strange as their flesh was, Zephon was more disturbed by their hands. Three talons replaced fingers, dagger-sharp like a hawk's, but jointed. Hooves took the place of feet. Zephon had no idea how they held their swords. They had them—wide, curved sabers, as if they were their own cavalry. _

_A lithe First One kneeled a pace away, her spindly hands on the globe, a scribe of sorts. Further back, a dozen others faced off with the Enslaved. _

"_So few of you?" The Hylden who spoke was the color of ash, his eyes bright green and set deep in a gaunt face. Of the dozen, he seemed to be the one they deferred to. They all stood, without thrones or flourish. _

_Zephon imagined their simplicity was one of choice. Wallowing in the decadence their prosperity allowed would become common, and thus vulgar. Most dressed in gauzy robes, unsuited for the wet-chill air of the island, but he doubted they felt it. Their jewelry was their only ornamentation. A green jewel hung from the neck of the speaker. Zephon remembered the human adept and her alexandrite pendant. Perhaps Jezal had a sense of mockery. _

"_We had to avoid suspicion, General," the winged leader said. He was precise and careful with a language not his own. When he spoke, his teeth were sharp, not fanged. "They outnumber twofold. But many are young. With your aid, we could return the priests to their _Wheel_, and our kith would see reason." His voice dripped with bitterness._

_The Hylden bared his teeth, his voice deep as the Lake of the Dead. "Miklos, my heart bleeds for the idiocy befallen your kin. But I will not bloody my people for nothing." _

"_I would never ask that," the vampire said, ignoring the backhanded remark. "Take the citadel. Whatever that creature is, it resides below. You can capture it. Dissect it. And of course you will be repaid."_

_The Hylden cocked his head, eyes cold as a grave. _

_The vampire sensed his mistake. "Repaid in whatever you wish, General," he added, his voice fighting desperation. This race was not one to die for gold. _

_But the vampire had no sense at all, Zephon thought. The General looked about to demand the slaughter of every firstborn child as payment. The Hylden leader smiled, ever so courteously._

"_A generous recompense, certainly," he said. "And an opportunity to cut off these fanatics before they declare us their heretical enemy? We will help you."_

You idiot._ This was _not _a vampire. Behind his noble visage, this ancient was proud and guileless. There was no sense of ruthless hunger that kept them all moving toward an end they could never meet. _Witless eagles._ Zephon might have thought them sanctified, but for the creatures' ridiculous naivety. _

_The vampire bowed his neck, though two of his followers looked false through their smiles, as if they knew they'd just credited away their souls. Perhaps not all of them were fools. Only desperate. The audience soon adjourned. The vampires promised to return in a fortnight. Now they would meet with the Hylden on the mainland. _

_After they were gone, the composed room ignited. _

"_Help them?" said the female to the leader's right, her golden eyes narrowed. _

_The General laughed. "Their false god forbid! But they've given us an opportunity. Let them destroy themselves."_

"_Then betray them?" said a familiar voice. _

_Jezal stepped forward, his face younger and less resigned._

"_No, my delicate cousin," the General said. "There will be war—even the Seer agrees. The Enslaved will destroy their rebellion, but not without bleeding themselves. We can retake our northern border." _

_There was a shift to his glance, a tightness to his mouth. Zephon could read it across time and race. _Let it not be said, magister, you fear them at full strength. Those proud, valiant falcons._ So different from their legacies. _

_At least some pieces seemed to interlock. The First Ones had abandoned the vampires who did not believe in a false god, counting on a weakened force they could destroy in war. But whatever their deluded zealotry, the winged creatures were a race of warriors._

Betrayal…not a poor idea, but often a stupid one._ Look where it landed the First Ones. _

The present snapped back, the light fading. Zephon blinked away the green embers. The girl was wane, damp-browed. He stifled a growl of irritation. She may have had some stringy link back to the ancient creatures, but she was as frail and human as anyone else in her village.

With every answered question he had a dozen more. How had vampirism spread to humans? Did the winged creatures actually build the Pillars?

But it seemed he would have to wait for answers. The girl looked half ready to vomit. Zephon did wonder with mordant curiosity what might happen if he pushed her through the fatigue. A spray of red stained the ground from where he had awoken—he hoped he hadn't snorted out part of his brain. He got away with a headache, but a human?

Best not to break his one chance for answers though. Curiosity was an infection—she would want to come back here. One look was never enough.

* * *

Even asleep, the fledgling's cadaverous face was twisted in pain. He seemed curled on his stomach, until a closer look showed the bits of spine poking through his skin.

Lishta sighed. Though a healer, the past four days had made her closer to a mortician. She sat beside him on the narrow bed.

"I bled him as much as I could, but his back still tried to mend," she said, stroking his neck. "I can rebreak it, but at his age he would never be right again. Half a gargoyle."

Ryszard shrugged, then bit back a groan as the muscles spasmed down his back. He did not know if_ he_ would be right again. Just standing next to the bed was a trial. Lishta had told him she couldn't do anything to fix it unless she cut him open. Like hell she was. He'd spent his unlife keeping blades _out_ of his body.

For all her skill, she could not cure a famine. A dozen slaves had come when Lord Zephon took the cathedral. Half a dozen of the priests had survived, their tongues cut out to prevent any demon summoning. Eighteen humans could not heal a legion of wounded vampires. His orders to Ragnarok and Aztiluth had demanded they bring any slaves they could spare, but they would not arrive for another two days.

The problem was also vampiric healing. Whatever writhed inside him was better at knitting flesh than bone. Bones needed to be set to heal properly, and blood to heal strong. Without it, they fused, but the bone was weak and crooked. Fortunately vampire bones were could take more abuse than a human's. That hadn't stopped the demon from breaking backs and twisting spines. He knew why Lishta had called him here.

One of her tricks in times of need was to stop healing altogether. She claimed it was better to not heal at all if blood was scarce, instead of letting the bones twist back together like a broken scarecrow. So she bled them, to a point where their skin grew parchment-thin and withered. But she was not infallible.

Ryszard's own injuries were of neither bone nor flesh, but nerves and tendons. Whatever the demon had done had winded them all together and shredded the knots. A short step, a clipped turn, and he was locking his jaws to keep from screaming. When he was not in agony, he was grimacing through a pulsing ache.

For all his sire's calculated writing, Zephon's clan was now an open wound, ready to turn septic at any moment. Somewhere in his web he'd placed Isana, a wildcard to confound his petulant firstborn. As much as Ryszard thought her influence came from between her legs, another side of him admitted she was competent, at least for enraging her rivals into error.

"Cull the weak if you must," he said.

Lishta cupped the fledgling's chin with one hand, and placed the other behind his head. She twisted, and the snap sounded like a hundred wet branches. Her gentle touch earlier was to find a weak point in his vertebrae.

The fledgling had barely seen a decade—a broken neck would kill him. Ryszard scowled. A proud vampire, reduced to the fate of a chicken.

Some claimed she had magic, but Ryszard had killed enough sorcerers to know she smelled nothing like them, like lightening and musk. Her talent came from her love of cutting things open. Some thought she was kinder than most vampires, but it was a softness that never reached her eyes. Ryszard had always felt a sliver of gratitude toward her, after she'd reattached four fingers he'd lost to a glaive.

"You're in pain," she said. "Sit."

Ryszard would not. Sighing, she lashed out with a bare foot and hooked it around a chair, dragging it against his legs. He went down like a block of iron, snarling in pain and rage.

"You can't even carry a sword, you fool," Lishta snapped. "This isn't atonement. Zephon gave you a task, and you will fucking do it." Behind her deer-like lashes was a torturer as well as a healer. She pulled the dead vampire into her lap, his neck lolling. "I did not call you here to ask for. Waste not."

He would grimace, if he was not already. She rolled her eyes and offered the fledgling's limp wrist.

"That demon fooled Zephon too. Stop pretending you can change it."

But Zephon had not felt smug satisfaction in thinking he had forced the whelp to grow a spine. As the demon mocked, he missed what was in front of him. His back continued to throb in agony.

"Right now," Lishta pressed, "Isana could kill you in a straight fight."

She knew how muscles and bones worked, and she knew how to pull levers that made people move. He grabbed the limp wrist, tearing through veins and arteries until blood filled his mouth. Daggers stabbed at his spine—healing brought its own kind of pain. Lishta rose and walked behind him. Her fingers were like iron spikes driving into his shoulders.

"You'll need more before you're mended, but this should help the pain. When the rest of the clan arrives, you can at least appear to be the one they would follow."

Ryszard pulled away, his mouth bloody. "Zephon did not make me his steward."

"No, the demon made you that. Ruthven is dead."

"What of Isana?"

Lishta sighed irritably. "Refusing blood until the clan arrives. To prove her sacrifice, though I suspect her brother will take care of that."

The slattern a martyr? Ryszard would laugh, were his vertebrae not burning. Isana knew part of the clan despised her; he guessed she was scrabbling to make use of her strange moment of heroism. He also knew Ghislain would give her anything she wanted.

The pain finally subsided, sinking below anything he had felt in days. Ryszard shrugged off Lishta's hands, rising with more care than he cared to admit. Things still felt wrong, but he didn't feel ready to bite off his tongue.

"You're still injured," Lishta said, moving to cover the fledgling. "No displays of prowess; keep it to threats."

She held out a hand, pale but drenched in almost as many years blood as his. He scowled, but took it and brushed it with his lips. He had always felt a sliver of gratitude toward her, for saving his hands. And a sliver of hatred, knowing he owed many of his battles to her. He'd been young and stupid, lunging with a claymore, not realizing the dead soldier below him was not quite so dead.

Lishta smiled, a hint of humor bleeding into her clinical sharpness. "No fighting—unless you simply must."

He left, no longer groaning at the effort it took not to hobble like a leprous crone.

_Rahab._ He had seen little of the vampire since that day. The vampire was flexible if nothing else; a dislocated shoulder had been the worst of his injuries, at least any he would admit to. He had vanished into the library. Ryszard was content to keep him out of the way. Rahab was the closest of Zephon's brothers, but he was also an eel, with a way of slithering into everything.

Nevertheless, he was under his protection. Ryszard climbed up a short set of stairs. The pain seeped back, still held at bay by the fledgling's lifeblood, but a reminder the conclave in two nights could easily go to hell. Everything went to hell when you couldn't tear someone's arms off.

He found the vampire ensconced in the library. Rahab sat in the middle of a fortress of books, his eyes barely flickering from an open text when Ryszard approached. He knew that expression—the clan lord looked too much like Zephon in the days before his exile.

"What are you looking for?"

Rahab finally looked up. "Answers, obviously. This library contains texts lost to Nosgoth." He brushed an errant lock of hair from his face. "Tell me, did you ever wonder what you were before you were a vampire?"

"No," Ryszard said without pause. "It's irrelevant."

"Don't dismiss the irrelevant," Rahab chided. "I had a theory. Surely, Kain would not raise goat herders to be his lieutenants. And our names—mine, Zephon's, Raziel's—they are out of place with most born in the last five hundred years—"

"How do you know that even was your human name?" Ryszard cut in.

"I've picked through a few archives," Rahab continued, sharper than before. "To the days of Janos Audron. And I think," his eyes were almost feverish, his smile coy. "Kain has more humor than we thought."

Ryszard almost snorted. Did Rahab expect him to drink up his revelations like a child?

"What's that one?" he asked, nodding to the one book that stood out in the stacks. There was no title, only bumpy, haggard leather thicker than the book's size warranted.

Rahab's eyes were slitted, almost patronizing. But that half-smile returned when he picked up the tome.

"I would hardly visit the library of demon summoners without looking into their art."

"Use it when you return to your own castle," Ryszard growled. Orders be damned, he would tear out the lieutenant's vocal cords if he tried to summon one of those abominations.

Rahab smiled, fangs gleaming. "Not until I've studied it more. But our dear Isana seemed most curious."

He stiffened. Isana had Ghislain to take care of any killing. But a demon? Ryszard remembered Zephon saying the thing that possessed Selik was no demon, but enough vampires were wounded taking the cathedral for Ryszard to know they were nasty creatures.

For the hundredth time, he cursed the day he had gone near that cave.

* * *

The brother had not waited. He had ridden off on Niamh's horse. Zephon did not care, except that meant riding double. The girl sat behind him—he did not trust his willpower to resist a throat bobbing inches from his mouth. Even as it was he was tense and looking for a distraction.

"Niamh." He sensed her looking up. He rarely called her by name. "You said you've seen my home. What did you actually see?"

"Many things," she said. "Once I saw a city on a lake. One night I saw the most beautiful pillars—they stretched into the sky."

Zephon paused. He did not fully believe the girl had a second sight, regardless of her ancestor. For all he knew, she could just be taken to fits mistaken for prophecy. The city on the lake, however, sounded like Nachtholm. He asked her to continue.

"Not everything was beautiful. One time I saw a brotherhood of warriors, with ornate armor, their shoulders capped with wings. Six were slain by a…" she considered the word. "A creature."

_The Sarafan?_ Not the ones now though. After Kain slew their leader, some of his followers held Meridian. Others fled. The latter were the smarter—Zephon was sure they were not all dead. But none wore wings. Wings were a motif of the far older Sarafan Order, shattered when Vorador attacked the Circle. He did recall a mention of dead Inquisitors, in addition to dead guardians. Vorador had outdone himself. And that meant—

"You do see the past."

"I do not!" She sounded as if he'd called her a whore.

He fought back a chuckle. "Is that such a crime?"

"After all these years why would I not have seen my people's past?"

Better a talent you never have then one you cannot use.

"You said history is immutable. Perhaps there is no separation between past and present?" _Which I still do not believe._

"Mayhap. But I do not agree."

He rode in amused silence after that. It was dark now, and his mood improved. His senses were cut to a finer edge; he could hear how different the wind sounded through the boughs of oak and yew, and smell the squirrels and stags sheltering in the woods.

Their path had cut a wide swath through forest, eons ago. The grass had covered the original stonework, but Zephon could hear the dullest clunk, well below the horse's hooves.

But for all his newfound clarity, the girl was fading fast. He supposed she had had a trying day, for a human girl who had never known Nosgoth. He felt her grip tighten around his waist, and her cheek against his shoulder. Gods, Rahab would have a field day if he saw him now. It wasn't so long until she dozed off, slumped against his back. Never entirely asleep, he could hear from her breath, but resting. He was forced to walk the horse anyway; the animal was not his Gevurah, and would be almost blind to holes and jagged footing.

It was almost an hour later she bolted awake. Her fingers dug into his stomach and her waking gasp grated too close to his ears.

"We need to go."

"Your horse may break a leg."

"I don't care." Her voice was hoarse.

Suddenly Zephon realized what might have happened when she dosed off. "What did you see?"

"The Dearg-Dul."

Interesting. He dug his boots into the horse, pushing it into a trot then a canter. A break-neck gallop would have them walking back on foot, but they covered far more ground now.

It still took another hour, but when they were a league away, Zephon knew what they were rushing to. Dark work. The wind from vulture wings, the skittering crawl of hungry insects. As they neared, his senses sang with blood and smoke. Did a hound feel as joyful as it raced toward a wounded hind?

But it would seem she did not share his enthusiasm. She kicked the horse on herself, the creature bounding up the rise. The gate at the top was torn open.

_Fools, you had a bleeding choke point._

Past the wall, the village was a smoldering tempest. Houses were aflame, and people ran to put them out. Before Zephon's eyes, a horse plunged from a smoking barn, its mane charred and its eyes blind with panic.

Niamh leapt to the ground, throwing down her pack and bow. She was racing toward the main hall.

Zephon cantered after her, cursing as the horse shied from a running villager. He reined the horse in just as the girl collapsed.

It was the boy, Ronan. His sword was bloody, but so was his entire left side. Zephon dismounted, fighting back the gnawing in his throat. _Abandoning your post to chase after your sister, and this happens?_ Zephon could see why it might have been tempting to die.

Clever of the blood-drinkers. He guessed they had drawn off Niamh's father and his best fighters, and then attacked the underdefended village. _The Dearg-Dul_—the thought smacked him between the eyes. He should have thought of this earlier.

He swung from the horse and pulled the girl to her feet. Her hands were sticky with drying blood.

"Which way would they go?"

She looked at him, the whites of her eyes reddening at the corners, her irises bright and glassy.

"West. Deep in the forest"

Why had he not thought of this before? Zephon would have laughed.

His horse was a foam-soaked, huffing mess. But there were other horses—several snorted and twisted in a round pen, far enough from the flames they did not try jumping the wooden bars. Zephon had his sword and daggers, and a ravenous bloodthirst he could barely check. There were so many bleeding, fear-maddened humans…

Leaving his cloak behind, he leapt onto the fence and jumped to the nearest horse. No saddle or bridle, but one did not live for a century without learning how to make do. With a kick that startled the animal, he was leaping over the fence and cantering toward the forest. West, of course.

* * *

He crept cat-soft toward the hall, though making no effort to hide himself. The village looked little different from Niamh's. Less steel, more wood, less sulfur and more smoking moss.

Isana knew him well—he would not want to be alone, even if his only company was human. But he could also be impulsive…and very bad-tempered when he was hungry. He smirked. Niamh claimed she wanted to save her people. Had she not coaxed him like a stray dog back to her home and tempered his appetite with scraps, it would have been her village and not the Dearg-Dul's that he prepared to slaughter.

He could smell them now—men, women, and children. All mingled with a faint, cloying, coppery undertone. Some were asleep in the cottages. But his attention drew to the hall. It was one thing to devour those hardly shaken from slumbering dreams. It was another to dive like a falcon upon those who knew and_ felt_ the moment of first blood. To know death had come, and know who held the scythe, and to realize there was no special end or bargaining—that was the moment Zephon loved.

The hall had no windows, only a large door. Inside, he could hear the scrapings of goblets to table, the mead-dulled murmur of cheer. Gaiety had its own spiced scent. _Ah, how dare you make so merry and not invite me?_

Zephon kicked open the double-doors, the hinges screeching and splinters snapping.

There were almost twenty men, deep in their cups. The man at the far end of the table looked up. An antlered headdress gave him the look of a forest spirit. He held out a hand. _Welcome._

Few things surprised Zephon. He remembered Niamh's story of cultish blood drinking. Demonic reverence. The coppery smell was stronger here. The Dearg-Dul did have a strange look. Pale, almost sickly, but for their rawboned statures and an odd brightness to their eyes. _But where are my manners?_

Zephon smiled, showing every fang, and stepped past the threshold. Immediately he felt the noose tighten.

The man smiled back, and it was every bit as promising and lethal as a vampire.

There was no wall of weapons, like Niamh's village. Instead there were chains. The table, now covered in crockery, was gouged and stained. He had walked into a death trap. Theirs, of course.

He recounted their numbers. One versus sixteen. Not odds he would chance were it Nosgoth. But these drunken savages?

Zephon lunged at the closest man, leaping up at the last second and kicking him under the jaw. He landed on the table, taking the high ground. He sent the nearest decanter cracking into the stunned cultist's face. At last he unsheathed his sword.

This was no time to draw them in. One to sixteen—as drunk as they were, they still weren't casual odds. He wheeled on the stringy man who jumped up behind him, and feinted. Not with his sword, but his claws. Oh, he was impatient. He dragged the man forward, smashing him into a second cultist, and hauled his throat to his mouth.

The moment his fangs tore through skin was… words failed. Euphoria, power—fury at having been denied so long. Fury at himself for not tearing open the first human he saw weeks ago. And like a wolf, first blood only drove him on.

The Dearg-Dul had paused the briefest moment but soon were scrambling up again. He tossed the bleeding cultist aside, slashing his throat as he let go. Zephon darted, slashing and stabbing. Before now, the bloodlust had slumbered. Fitfully, cracking open an eye or murmuring a threat, but it was restrained. Now it awakened in a maelstrom, snapping from chains and snarling like a beast of hell.

He laughed, blood splattering from his mouth. The blood had given him a quivering rush of power—the first he had known since Nosgoth. He crunched a windpipe with his fist, shattered a kneecap with his boot. The man fell onto the table, coughing up a splatter of blood. Zephon dived to seize him, and claw out the sinew from his windpipe.

The shield caught him in the face.

His vampiric reflexes reeled him back, enough to avoid the iron shield's full impact. Even so, his neck snapped like a whipcrack, and his fangs ripped through his tongue.

It was the antlered man. He had not rushed forward like the other drunken hounds. How they could guzzle demon blood and not hack up their own stomachs Zephon had no idea. Whatever it did, it put a rod of steel where the man's arm should be.

Zephon staggered off-balance, just as a chain crushed against his windpipe and a knee smashed into his spine. The antlered man stepped back to gather momentum, dead-set on bashing his face to pieces.

But Zephon would have snorted at the fool behind him, had his windpipe not been detained. Nothing like a halberd through the guts or a plunge into a moat to teach_ true_ pain. He dropped the sword and pulled the twin blades from his sleeves. In they went, past a scrim of cloth and deep into a belly. The chain loosened, enough that Zephon could leave one of the blades in the man's flesh, tear into his arm, and hurl him over his shoulder. Both cultists went down in a crash of flesh and metal.

A man at his flank now wanted to introduce him to a battleax. Zephon dropped to one knee and slashed at his inner thigh. The blood drenched him crimson, the bright red of an artery, and the ax clattered over the wood.

Finally he spotted the antlered man—recovered from his fall and charging with a spear. He could at least think through his drunkenness. One of the few ways a human could possibly best a vampire in single combat was with a polearm. Zephon grabbed the discarded chain and lashed it. It tangled in the cultist's ridiculous antlers, and Zephon dragged him to his knees. Lunging across the table, he rammed a dagger through his hand, pinning him to the wood as he slid past.

Only four were still capable of fighting. One stood directly in front of the fire, the other two flanked him. The fourth—Zephon snarled as the arrow took him in the shoulder. It was just his right, though, and he was better with his left hand. An arrow through the eye, thought, was different. He was out of daggers, but the battleax was near. An awkward throw, but it took the man down, and that was all Zephon needed.

The antlered man's spear also lay at his feet. Zephon leveled it at the man in front of the fire who was now rushing the table. It took him in the chest, dragging him into the flames. The vampire turned to the last two, who were scrambling to get on either side of him.

Zephon sprang at the one closest, his claws digging into his hands, prying away the sword. Then he tore into his throat. The last man standing was occupied with his blundering, fiery clan mate.

In times of quiet, it was preferable to take one's blood slowly. But this was a slaughter, and he was hungry. The blood pulsed down his throat, as fast as he could gulp it. He hadn't fought entirely unscathed. His limbs burned as the skin knit back together.

Zephon dropped the cultist as the blood began to slow. The flaming man had taken his clan-mate down with him, courtesy of the corpses that had tripped them both. The floor was stone though, so he ignored their smoldering bodies.

He hopped back onto the table, taking his time before the antlered, seeming leader of the Dearg-Dul. Then he noticed, the knife was no longer sticking out of the table. The man lunged, Zephon's dagger clutched in his good hand.

_Foolish of me. Why would a vampire be the only one who would tear his own flesh to save himself? _

Occasionally, his slender stature was an advantage. He had none of Turel's mountainous height or Dumah's bull-sized shoulders. Even Melchiah looked half a city thug when he wished.

But humans still thought a vampire's power could be measured in size. Not that it couldn't be, but more than a few humans had thrown themselves at him, given hope he was a frail thing, regardless of how many decanters of blood he had spilled.

Zephon kneed him in the stomach, and he collapsed with a wet squelch. Blunt trauma was always fascinating. The antlers dipped low. _Come to think of it, I hate those fucking antlers._ He knelt on one knee, eye level. One antler snapped off in his hand, soon buried in the cultist's eye. He hadn't liked a getting a shield to the face. Zephon swallowed his screams. None too soon. He would have tired soon had the battle raged on. As it was, he thanked the ale and mead.

Now the mindless love of something so missed was fading, he realized how rich it actually tasted. Slightly thicker, slightly familiar—he recoiled and the chieftain collapsed, driving the antler deeper with a sputtering sound. Slightly coy…slightly like demon blood.

Small wonder, as they drank it. Were his insides about to twist inside out again? He waited several minutes but felt none of the churning from the demon hunt. Whatever they drank, he decided, they were still human.

His nerves were still twitchy from the fight. A wet cough sent him pouncing at the source. A young human dragged himself from underneath the smoking cultist. The spear had snapped off, the rest of the shaft jutting through the corpse's back. Whatever fire hadn't finished, the spear had. The survivor was burned across his arms and belly.

Zephon crouched beside him, hands dangling from his knees. The boy was red-haired and his eyes were a wide grayish blue. It was easy to see their relation to Niamh's village.

Nosgoth would never suffer a vampire to steal into a hall of so-called warriors and cut through almost twenty of them like blind sheep. Not unless that vampire was Kain or Vorador. Plate mail, destriers, halberds—human survival came down to ingenuity, and knowing how to make nasty things out of stone and metal.

He was little more than a boy, likely the son of one of the corpses. Through a broken lip he croaked out a string of…something. Curses, things left undone, or just nonsense babble brought on by impending doom. Zephon could taste the fear and pain.

Four corpses drained and he was starting to sway on his feet. The haze had lifted. Everything was clearer. His reflection shifted in the metal goblets, some on the floor, a few still somehow on the table. He had almost more blood on him than in him. As it should be. These idiots thought _demons _were the most ferocious creatures in the world?

He knew he had not killed them all. The number of warriors here was disproportionate to the number of women and children still asleep. They were still asleep, somehow. Zephon debated killing them all, but quickly dismissed it. He still had no idea how long he was stuck here. If he were to guess, the rest of their fighters were harassing Niamh's father, keeping them occupied while others broke off for his village. That's what he would do.

Zephon finally left the hall, blood singing in his veins and the night wind a battlecry to his ears.

He had left the horse a ways the woods. It was dark and the animal would not have moved much.

It was ridiculous NIamh's village had not destroyed the Dearg-Dul. They were far closer than he thought, and easy enough to track through the forest. Soon he was mounted; he would reach the village well before dawn.

The horse's hooves plodded over the loam and leaves, sending creatures skittering away from the path. This freshly fed, the hooves sounded like pounding drums to his ears. He could smell little else than blood, courtesy of the sixteen men now adorning his clothes.

But now the drumming seemed louder and out of synch. Zephon breathed deeper, fighting through the smell of gore. Something was out of place. At last he heard it—a clicking sound, metal sliding against metal.

Instinct spared him as he dived from the horse's back, just as an explosion smashed through his ears. The horse squealed and bolted, the reek of blood and cacophonous noise finally driving it past all training.

Three horses rushed at him, surrounding him as he leapt to his feet. Then he saw their leader, and laughed at the ridiculousness of it. Ciaran, of course. Niamh's father looked white with fury.

"If you've seen your village, I'll excuse you on account of grief," Zephon said. "Once."

"Creature," he snarled. At least Zephon thought that was what he said. "I should have killed you the day you entered my hall. The Dearg-Dul were looking for you."

"They attacked because your stupid son was too busy chasing after his sister to defend his post," Zephon said. In memory, the antlered man's smile did seem like it was his lucky day. Until Zephon killed him, of course. He smiled, a warning. "Fewer will be joining their next raid."

The man swore. "Fool. We could have killed their entire clan but they hunted the _deamhain_. Less _deamhain _hunted us."

That was critical thinking above what he believed the man was capable of. _Let your enemy occupy itself, and keep it in check as necessary. _He doubted the man knew his son was dead—he seemed furious, not grief-stricken enraged. But his patience was fraying, and Zephon did not like having two spears pointed at him. They had never cornered a vampire before though—they were both two paces away. Any human soldier on Nosgoth would have his spearpoint digging into his neck, if he ever got that close.

Ciaran went for the ax at his back, just as he spurred his horse forward.

Why was he so soft with these humans? Zephon rolled, avoiding the hooves. This fool should have remembered that day of the hunt. _I only refrained from slaughter because I chose to._ Zephon had his sword out and was flying at the man before he could pivot his horse.

Clearly he had never met a vampire before. He was not even wearing a gorget. The sword sliced into his neck, the red smile spouting blood.

The two men were of disparate opinion. The smarter one wheeled his horse and bolted. His less intelligent kith leveled his spear like a javelin and threw.

Zephon caught it, just strong enough the momentum didn't take him off his feet. He turned to the fleeing horseman. These damn things were always hard to aim. As it was, he threw too low, and it took the horse in the hindquarters. With a shriek the animal went down. Well, same difference.

He jumped back, just as the last rider plunged toward him. He ducked the sword but grabbed the arm, wrenching him back. It almost took the horse down too, but the sturdy animal sprang away. The rider, however, fell on Zephon's sword.

_Pah_. In Nosgoth, most humans would have expected that, and the clinging vampire would have gotten a faceful of metal. These humans were little more than armed fishwives.

A groan caught his attention. The rider whose horse fell was pushing himself out from under the crippled beast. Zephon killed the horse first. It didn't need to suffer. Then he went to the horseman. A boot on his back stopped his pained crawl. A sword between his shoulder blades stopped his pained cries.

Pity. Humans seemed to throw themselves at him now and he was already full.

He took Ciaran's black horse. He had no desire to track down his own panicked mount. He had no idea how long he would still be here, but now things had turned interesting.


	27. The Trap

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 27: The Trap**

**Author's** **Note:**Update FTW!

* * *

Of all the times he had wanted to throttle the harridan—

"_Can you not see?" _ Isana's voice was rough and forced.

"I see a legion of starving vampires, wench."

Ryszard's forearm pressed harder into her throat, pinning her against the stone wall. It would not strangle her—many fledglings forgot that—but at that moment all he wanted was to inflict pain without wounding her. Some small part of him hissed that Zephon would stab him the moment he returned if anything happened to his cruel songbird.

The clan had arrived hours before, slaves ambling behind. The vampires that might have been too young or stupid to control themselves were too injured to devour them on sight. But then the wench emerged from the cathedral, her brother dogging behind. Her orders, so regal on her viper tongue, ordered them to keep the humans outside, away from the legion that would tear them to pieces.

Ryszard had restrained himself, until he had her alone. Then he wrenched her around, all reserve long fled. She looked ready to bite his face off, her eyes yellow, blazing instead of dark.

Pain flared up his spine but he willed it aside. Compared to three days ago it was nothing. Her claws dug into his arm.

"Do you have no understanding of spectacle?" she rasped. "Leid and Scharf brought a hundred slaves from Ragnarok. Do you want _them_ to be known as saviors? Save the humans for the feast." Her gaze hardened. "And remove your arm before I gut you."

He felt the pressure of the blade, snuck up close to his stomach which her other hand clawed at his wrist. He would laugh through the trifling wound as he tore her throat out. But her noxious words made some sense. If she ever made sense, it was with her plots and ploys.

Ryszard pushed back, easing his arm off her jugular. Isana breathed deep, a hand grazing her bruised throat. Her hair hung to her waist, free of the pins and jewels she always stuck in it. Poorly kept, for her. She had no wardrobe here, so her shoulders were draped in a black shawl, covering the ruin of her red dress. He could still see where her bodice had split at the bottom; doubtless she wanted the clan to remember her fight.

"Grace be to you; you still see reason," she said icily.

_Reason?_ What was there left to do but threaten? He grinned, half a snarl. "It will be an act of grace if the clan does not tear you apart."

* * *

What little composure had returned to the village vanished the moment he walked through the gates at dawn. Drenched in gore, reeking of death and dark work—no, not what the human sheep wanted to see. Those who still _could_ see; he could smell the blood from a league away.

Stragglers had returned as well, all manner of wounded. As he would learn later, the Dearg-Dul had herded a demon into their ranks. It tore their flank before they could kill it, leaving them open to another attack. Deep in the forest, they broke like saplings. A frantic messenger from the burning stead was little help, as it only sent their leader Ciaran off on a tear.

It was a disgrace. Zephon wished there were more like them in Nosgoth—building an empire would be much less frustrating.

He threw open the door to the main hall. The boy was sprawled on the table, his face milk-white, his breathing shallow. His grandfather was bloody to the elbows as he stitched his side. The old man spared the vampire a glance but little else. Zephon supposed nature had endowed the boy with unnatural hardiness to make up for his unnatural stupidity.

More villagers sprawled on the table and floor, crying or moaning in a language he could finally understand—agony. Others milled around them, nursing and bandaging. The smell would have driven him mad had it been a day ago.

Now he wanted only to sleep. It had been a day and night of fighting demons, getting his head wrenched by an ancient device, and throwing himself into a fight won by luck and drunkenness. The fatigue was common—with his veins now flowing with borrowed blood, his body wanted nothing more than to rest and repair all the abuse he had heaped on it since his subpar diet of deer and goats.

He was halfway up the staircase when the girl appeared at the top, hands full of rags. Presumably to clean the table before the boy's blood stained the wood.

"You found them?"

It was strange to look up at her. "I killed them."

It was stranger when she dropped everything and bounded down the steps until they were level. She threw her arms around his ribs, heedless of the blood soaking him to the bone. Some of it her father's.

"_Cosaintóir_," she whispered into his chest. He had no idea what the word meant, of the few he was starting to make out. "The First Ones wouldn't have let them carry on like this…why should we?"

_I see._ She was young and ridiculously impulsive, but her closeness muffled her voice from other ears. He wondered if she was a dreamer or just deranged. Either way, it would be easy to coax her back to the Hylden City. His hands settled on her shoulders, easing her back. For once he could look her in the eye and not be distracted by her jugular.

"If your heart is set on war," he said, fighting back a laugh, "I've set the kindling for you. Sixteen are dead. It will keep them away, for now. But they will strike back someday. Best repair your gate."

_They might destroy you all, silly girl._ Whatever the future, they would need a new king soon.

* * *

He was about to stare down an entire clan vampires. Of course he'd faced larger numbers in war, but never in a feasthall. Strange, he would have thought nothing of snarling at his own before a battle.

The pain had slithered back, first in his lower back, then up his spine and across his hips. The worst was still held at bay, but his temper was ready to snap. A pity he was in no shape to stove in the faces of anyone who looked at him wrong.

He played the part Zephon had so titled him, and a commander had to be seen to be followed. He walked among them, a joke to one, a threat to another. Finally he had returned to his chamber to steel himself for a final push.

But his fraying nerves came not only from pain, nor the smell of a coming storm. A sense of unease picked at him, unrelenting as a vulture, corrosive as cancer. His first years of command bore similar feelings, of something overlooked or uncalculated. They passed with time and victory. This one did not.

Ryszard checked the sky through the tall window. Fog blurred the moon, a sign for rain, and night had just fallen. _Almost time._ He could hear the vampires assembling below, without the rattle of armor. Was Isana doing the same? The wench had locked herself in her room. He guessed she wanted to avoid him, and to hide her blood-deprived weakness. Or she just wanted to be a bitch—

The unease snapped like a bowstring. Ryszard lurched from his seat, grinding his teeth as fire lanced down his back.

"_Why keep what blinds you?"_ He remembered the stab inside him when the demon walked toward him with the knife.

He never hid his dislike of Isana, but she cared too little to be spiteful. Her gold-ringed black eyes flashed from cruel to quietly mirthful, but not to petty spite. The eyes that glared at him hours ago were bright gold, pinpricked with jet. And she would never have warned him before driving a dagger into his back.

Growling at the surging pain, he limped to Isana's chamber.

He went to force the door, but the handle turned easily. Isana looked up from a book as he entered, her cheekbones stark and her skin pallid. _Not feeding on her brother then? _Ryszard dragged her to her feet.

"_You saw nothing odd?" _The memory struck and sprang away, daring him to guess. _  
_  
Ryszard stopped using his eyes; he stopped giving her time to think. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her. A sacrifice on his part, but he needed to be close.

Isana would not refuse him. Her mocking offer had stood for decades, since that night when she danced through bloodstained halls. Her guile and his sword arm were occasional complements. Ryszard had declined. He was still with Lishta, before time made them too old and surly and keen to their duties.

Isana growled into his mouth, snapped and twisted.

"Filthy wretch!" she snarled, shoving away but trapped by the wall.

He knew then. Isana had gone to her grave the moment she tried to seduce the demon. This creature wore her skin. But now Ryszard was close. This close, his hands already grinding into bony shoulders, he could tear her throat out before it drew on its powers.

"_And what do you think will happen then?"_

Not a memory, but the demon couldn't have spoken so fast. The words echoed, never voiced, in his skull. But the fanged smile was knowing. And he wondered, for just a moment, if destroying it would just grant the creature a stronger vessel. The thought made him hesitate—the act he punished his charges for, because it got them killed.

Isana's hands curled around his sides, grip stronger than it should be. Ryszard gagged as the pain tore into him, making him stagger for balance. Then the knife ripped through the leather and into his belly.

No force held him like a puppet. His knees locked, and he toppled sideways onto the carpeted floor.

_Idiot._ He didn't even have a sword.

"I was one of the General's vanguards!" The creature spat, its smile savage and its eyes acrid. "To listen to you pretend to be a commander…some things do not warrant a quick death."

The creature turned in a flutter of red silk. Ryszard heard the lock grind into place. It was never trying to keep him out.

The pain simmered back to bearable levels. Still bleeding though. Ryszard growled and pinched the wound shut. It should start to close slightly. Just enough so he could ram down the door and tear the thing's head off.

He knew where it was going. The feast. For whatever hell it had designed.

The pain still remained, but his mounting fury was worse. The thing had fucked him over twice now. Enough waiting. The wound would tear open anyway. He crawled to his feet, grimacing at his weak legs. He'd rip out that thing's heart and order Rahab to decapitate him the moment after, if that would kill it once and for all.

But first to break down the door. The room flashed white just as thunder rattled the glass. The storm had finally come.

* * *

The rain cracked against the stones, pounded through the courtyard. The windows' glass was long gone, and water leaked between the shutters. Little wonder the place reeked of mold. Alaric sat by the fire, eyes and limbs heavy. Rainstorms relaxed him when walls and armies could not – storms meant no vampires. It was hours into the storm.

He had buried the brigands. Not deeply—he cared not if a wolf found their corpses. But burning them meant the reek of hair and flesh. He'd smelled it when he stormed Nachtholm. Vampire flesh, but it smelled human when it melted in the flames.

Alaric had no idea what he wanted to do. No, he knew exactly what he wanted. More wine. No longer leading an army, there was no reason to stop drinking. It dulled his pain, dulled his heart. Bless the brigands for finding the cask. There were more in the cellar, along with dried provisions.

Perhaps in several days—his thoughts jarred through hazy reverie at the sound of wet hoofbeats squelching up to the courtyard.

He wanted to laugh, but that took too much effort. Human or vampire—now he had reason to fear both. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed the crossbow leaning against the chair. He'd just loaded one of the bolts when the door slammed open.

The vampire staggered in, lacking all of the grace that made its kind feared. It was sopping wet and scalded. In too much pain to sense Alaric crouched by the fire. The vampire tore the sodden cloak from its shoulders and leaned against a dry section of wall.

Its face twisted in surprise at the crackling fire and it went for its sword. Just as Alaric fired.

The slender bolt twanged, took it in the shoulder, and jerked the vampire into the wall. Immediately he loaded another bolt.

"Touch that and I put your eyes out," Alaric said, wine giving his voice a calmness he did not feel. In his weaker hand he the crossbow, in the other he held a smoking poker.

The vampire snarled, but its rain-burned hands stopped groping at the bolt. It was pinned to the wall, its knees bent and spine arched.

_Zephonim_, Alaric thought. The wet cloak had a clasp with the vampire lord's sigil. Strange, he was in Rahab's territory. Vampires rarely traveled alone, unless they were couriers.

"You're carrying a message," he said. "Hand it over."

The vampire smirked. Alaric then remembered their messengers rarely carried paper. For all their horror, they did possess inhumanly good memory. It made finding the message far more painful.

Unlike his uncle, he took no pleasure in torture. But he did remember the clan that had defiled his wife. For once, he would ask questions second.

The vampire roared as the poker burned into its collarbone. Its simple leather was nothing—the vampire's only steel was its sword and vambrances.

"Where are you going?"

A pained grimace. The twisting poker made it snarl.

"Where are you coming_ from_?"

"A cathedral," it choked bitterly. "A death trap."

The creature was riled, even without the human. Half-healed cuts spanned its face and hands, and its cheeks were raw from the rain. It still refused to say more.

They both knew how this would end. Vampires rarely broke under torture—that was half the reason for Sandulf's reputation. They had as much to fear from their own masters if they did.

"We were—" the vampire cut to silence.

Alaric prodded it again. The vampire hissed, its free hand clawing at the length of iron—Alaric snapped to his mistake, just as the vampire wrenched away the poker.

The bolt caught it in the face. It screeched and gagged, finally tearing from the first bolt and reeling blindly. It must have been young though, for it immediately collapsed and stilled.

Alaric studied the little crossbow. Luck, once more paying him a visit. It was light even for his injured arm.

_Cathedral?_ Sandulf did say Zephon had withdrawn his troops from Aztiluth, to ransack a heretic-infested cathedral. He and his uncle assumed it was a diversion—the Spider Lord was a skulking wretch, always scheming. And was he there now?

He knew he was in no shape to go after the vampire now. But given time, provided his uncle did not find him…given time, he would finish his promise to Galvira. He owed her that.

* * *

Galvira woke with a start, the thunder crashing in her ears like warhorses. She rolled back into the cave. The rain pattered outside and the stolen horse looked surly as its mane plastered to its neck

She still had no idea where she was going, as long as it was far from Sandulf. She had little idea where she was; somewhere near a tributary of the Aztiluth. In truth, she had not seen all of Nosgoth. Most of what she knew came from travelling with Alaric, and she hardly cared to memorize each rock and goat trail.

The clanking continued, and the horse nickered.

_Soldiers?_ Her heart pounded in her chest. One instinct cringed, the other surged with hope. Until the former won out. Her wretched curse ripped her from everything that had once been a comfort—the warm sun, the cool of spring water, and her husband.

It was must have been minutes before sunrise, but the rain washed away the daylight.

_Clank, pound, clank. _

Curiosity finally won out. She could not get too close, as they would see only an abomination, but she needed to know if it was time to ride again. Fear was different too now. Caution, concern, those remained, but when she paused to think about it, she had not felt an icy shard of panic since the moment the vampire sunk its fangs into her neck.

The cave was set on a hill. She believed it was called the Giant's Steps. Wide rocky ledges cut into the long slope, creating their own cliffs. At the bottom was a path, a small meadow, and more forest . All down the hill, a tiny river bubbled and splashed.

She made sure her gloves and cloak were in place, before crawling from the cave. It was near one of the ledges. Bracing against the wind and wincing as flecks of water scalded her cheeks, she edged toward the rocks.

The humans were directly below, crouched behind their own wall of rock. The clanking sound continued. Galvira peered farther over, trying to see what the humans were fixated on.

At the bottom of the slope, a column marched by—first a dozen horses, then two dozen foot. A small party. Vampires. Their leader rode a monstrous black destrier.

The humans below her had banked the small river with some wooden device. Galvira guessed it would dump the water onto the vampires as they passed. Picks and wedges were also impacted in the rock—a rockslide waiting for the signal.

They had to be Sandulf's men. He understood how to trick a vampire. The wind blew toward her, masking the humans' scent. The rain had the vampires hooded and disinclined to look up. The thunder and water drowned out the human's footsteps and whispered commands. The creatures were almost directly below. Galvira leaned farther over. _Which clan…_

Her gloved hand slipped on the wet stone and she pitched forward with a shriek.

The cold air bit through her stolen clothes and the sky flashed above her. She landed hard, just behind the humans. Instantly fifteen pairs of eyes snapped to her.

"Vampire!" hissed one. His comrade clapped a hand over his mouth.

Galvira scrambled to her feet, still able to move despite wheezing from the fall. One dived at her, a dagger in hand. She jumped to the side, his blade brushing past her cloak. The wall behind her was rock.

Dropping to one knee and begging for mercy? Sandulf would kill any soldier who showed a vampire mercy.

Again, she felt the force within her—the snarling wolf that commanded her to survive, whatever the cost. Just like Nachtholm, when she stood on a parapet above the lake, leaning out and ready to fall.

She flung herself forward, leaping over the surprised men and the rocky wall. Forward, and down. The fall was higher, but her balance was better. Somehow she rolled, the rock-strewn grass slicing into her shoulders, but leaving her bones unbroken.

Galvira looked up, hissing as rain stung her face, just as the bowstrings twanged and men screamed. The vampires had obviously heard her fall, and were backing away to avoid anything else crashing down the slope.

Another snap, this time faster coming from above. Crossbows. Two vampires screeched as the bolts pierced through their armor, and one swore as his horse fell to its knees.

Another volley, and this time silence. A handful of the vampires broke off to the slopes, to kill any stragglers.

_For the love of all gods_…somehow, she had just saved several dozen vampires. Galvira stood stock-still, one instinct telling her to run, the other crying it was no use. The vampire on the giant horse trotted forward, stopping right beside her. A cloak covered his armor. He drew back his hood, careless of the rain.

A cold face, with a strong jaw and dour look. Riding an unnaturally large horse. His cloak was carmine. _Oh gods._ The vampire glowering down at her was Raziel, Kain's firstborn son and slayer of Baldur.

"If you're a scout or a courier you're damned noisy." His voice was just as cold and aristocratic. "What clan are you?"

She was wincing as water trickled inside her gloves. Her hood had fallen back in the fall. Her thick hair was one small gift, at least.

"I don't know."

His smiled. "You're lying. Do it again and I'll break your fingers.

"Zephon's," she said in a small voice. "Though I've never seen him."

"_Lieutenant _Zephon," he snapped. "Is honesty so painful?" She stayed silent, and he continued. "Tell me how you got here." The smirk returned. "You're a bastard vampire, but not one from my clan. I won't kill you."

His name spoke otherwise. _The slayer of Baldur and his wife. The vampire who snuck into Baldur's hall, murdered Lady Salian, and held a room of nobles at bay._ A hundred stories swirled about Raziel, and those were among the least bloody.

So she told, sparsely, of her capture and her turning, of Alaric storming the keep through the waterway. She left out her role in the affair. He didn't seem to notice a lie of omission. "My husband did not realize what I was until after."

Raziel snorted in laughter. "I won't ask how he discovered your fangs." His eyes grew hawkish. "But you shouldn't have remembered at all."

"So I've been told."

"A mystery for another time," he said. "I would not leave you here alone; more of your uncle's men are scant miles away." Galvira had no idea how these vampires thought there smiles were reassuring. "Come with me as my guest," he continued. "I must repay you for spoiling your uncle's little surprise."

She wasn't such a fool she couldn't sense a trap. "Thank you my lord, but I was heading on the opposite path."

"I insist," His smirk remained, but his eyes were sharp. "I promised I would break your fingers if you lied to me. I can't go back on my word. As such I did not ask if your allegiance has changed."

Ice burrowed into her sinking heart. She'd escaped the headsman to find the hangman.

Raziel extended a gauntleted hand. He was close enough to grab her, and his archers were close. Perhaps that was how she could do it. She couldn't kill herself, but to sign her death warrant? The wolf inside her snarled. She took the offered hand.

He pulled her easily up behind him. The horse was a giant, close to nineteen hands. It seemed half a panther as it moved beneath her. Galvira thought back to the last time she'd been on a horse with a vampire. She could still feel the iron grip tightening around her windpipe.

"Where are we going, my lord?" Even death couldn't erase twenty-six years of propriety.

She felt him laugh. "Aztiluth, and the Sea Canyons. To meet your uncle-in-law."

So Sandulf was moving his army. She was glad the vampire had not interrogated her on strategy. She never had to mention the Timestreamer's staff. A far nastier surprise.

* * *

Zephon fought down a growl of frustration. The boy had limped to the hall below was below, after speaking low and angrily to his sib. Nothing like the gory death of family to put one in a foul mood. Had not the little Lord Sandulf grown his teeth after Ghislain gutted their father and Isana cut his head off?

The bodies were found several days after Zephon's return, too mauled and eaten to be identified by anything other than clothing. The girl had vanished into her room; the boy had raged at her through the door. Zephon's appearance was enough to make him shuffle off. Now the boy had taken to carrying a harkbus, limping and groaning most of the time. _Point that at _me_, you stupid pup, and you can join your sire._ He spent more time alone—now that he felt revitalized, his patience was fickle. More than anything he wanted to get back to the Hylden City.

He was _bored_. Niamh showed no interest in returning to the Hylden City yet. The villagers were even warier than before. Sometimes And, he missed his clan.

Zephon had tried not to think of them too much; it would only make him angered and lonely. But now it had been almost two months since his banishment, his mind wandered. Two months—in Nosgoth, he could blink and two months would have passed. Now, bored and restless, it was almost painful.

He hoped Isana would distract Ruthven enough to keep him from doing anything stupid. The firstborn disappointed him—so intemperate, so casual with orders. Beautifully persuasive, as long as he kept his temper in check, but a vainglorious nutcase when he couldn't. But perhaps his firstborn was not entirely to blame. Zephon was preoccupied with his own trials, and happier to ignore him until he learned to control himself. Some wounds healed with time, but most just festered. When he got back, Zephon thought, he'd spend some time with him.

And he missed Isana, the strange minx. Her quiet brother Ghislain. Ryszard, the one he'd overlooked until they rode to the Sanctuary. There would be changes when he got back. Hopefully to a clan that hadn't devoured itself.

His restlessness finally dragged him to his feet. A walk. Perhaps to the beach. He bucked his sword and strapped two daggers into place. Perhaps a hunt as well, with no need to devour his kill. Zephon padded silently down the stairs, mind calming at the thought of the night air.

He snorted when he reached the main room. The brother had fallen asleep in a chair by the smoldering fire. He knew the grandfather had been giving him herbs to curb the pain from his wounds. Probably to shut him up too. The harkbus leaned against the chair. Zephon took it. Not that he had any use for it, but it might give the girl some amusement to watch him rage.

_You should thank me, sirrah, I'm saving you from mistakes made in haste._

The season was growing cooler—the wind whispered over the grass and skittered past the scattered houses. It rifled through his shirt. His borrowed shirt, that was. He'd been lucky to get all the blood out of his hair; there was no helping his clothes. With all the recent dead, however, there were ample amounts of unused raiment. Rough, scratchy things not made for his usual standards.

Finally he reached the beach, where he first began his little odyssey. The rowboat was still there. Zephon breathed in deep the salty air. A walk, to clear his head—

_When have I ever taken a fucking walk to clear my head?_

The calmness fell away in tatters. Zephon eyed the stretch of rocky shore. He'd felt compelled to come here…hardly to collect seashells. He could scarcely feel surprised when a figure detached from the darkness, turning with slow grace.

To quail or run, that was not his nature. No matter how much older or more powerful the witch might be. Instead he smiled, mirthless, and sketched a bow.

"Fine night for a stroll, Seer?"


	28. The Return

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 28: The Return**

* * *

"More mannered than your sire, but less conviction." Her voice was a coy purr, clear and throaty over the wind that whipped at her clothes. What little of them there were.

Suspicion, presage, fascination, desire, dread—force of will kept him from shifting, from tightening his grip on the harkbus. Why had he picked that up? His earlier excuse sounded weak to his ears.

"You know Kain?" Was there anyone who had never met his sire?

"Not so long ago. When he defeated the Sarafan Lord." As he thought, she was one of the First Ones. A crest grew above her ears, and bones jutted from her shoulders. A swath of fabric fluttered behind her. Her skin was tanned, smooth, most unlike one would think of an ancient witch.

The pieces clicked in his mind. Kain had said he met a witch during his fight against the Sarafan. A creature like no vampire he'd ever seen. Not a vampire at all.

"Why fight your own kind?" he asked, puzzled. "Why help the ones who banished your people?"

"Did your kind banish my people?" Her smile was amused. "I call you vampire as a courtesy. You carry the infection of the Ancients, nothing more. You will never fly."

Desire was quickly leaving his assortment of feelings. Her eyes glimmered, as if she knew something important that he did not. And it amused her. She moved with a languor, until she was several paces away. Her legs had that strange backwards bend.

"You didn't need to _compel _me out here for a midnight tryst," Zephon said, fighting the urge to step back.

"You never resisted."

He did step back then, warier than before. "Have we met?"

"Tell me, Zephon," she purred. "Why have you never slaked your thirst on this village?"

"I did not want to, witch." A sinking feeling settled in his guts.

His lack of bloodlust hadn't bothered his thoughts. In Nosgoth, of course, he would have taken who he wanted, whenever he wanted. This was a different place, with different games. The harridan advanced, no weapons on her, but dangerous enough without them.

"Did you want to wander through a fog, fangless until it came time to defend the one I hold dear?"

"I never felt compelled to do anything, until now," he growled.

But the fog she mentioned. Had that not been his head for the past two months? A shiftless haze—he had attributed it to hunger and weakness. Zephon had not been dangerously hungry in half a century, but he thought back to earlier times, and to his own fledglings. A placid indifference was the _last_ thing a vampire felt with the thirst, something he conveniently ignored. By rights…

Her eyes narrowed. "Your sire, the Time Streamer, my people—all think the only path of influence is to force their desires. But the power of suggestion, a caress rather than a push—"

He went for his sword, her long life be damned. Faster than he could see, she appeared a breath away, hands cupping his jaw. For the briefest moment he thought she would wrench his skull off.

"I never harmed you," she whispered. "You had more important things to do than give in to your nature."

"What _things_?" he croaked. Even if she wasn't attacking him, he did not doubt she could kill.

"You will see soon enough."

He studied her, her face so close to his. A First One, but her teeth were sharper, and something in her movements was different from her Hylden kin. And how had she remained?

"I owed Vorador a favor when he sent Kain to me," she said, voicing his thoughts. Zephon started, but she held him close. "That debt stays, as long as I remain here."

Vorador was no magician. But Zephon could guess.

"His blood, then?" He took her hands in his own, slowly pulling them from his face. She let him. "But what of your kin—the one who possessed my fledgling?"

"They were trapped between realms, a foot in each. Their idea was similar to mine, but flawed."

At least she answered him, unlike the rest of Nosgoth. He might never have the chance to ask the thousand questions that swirled in his mind. She was too ephemeral to stay for long. Despite the expanse of centuries, the first one he thought to voice was one he never would have considered half a year ago.

"Your many-times great granddaughter believes time is immutable. Is she correct?"

Her forehead grazed his chin. He felt her smile against his throat. "My people fought over this idea for centuries," she said, voice somehow not muffled. "Do we trawl along a predestined path? Can one change the course of history? No."

Should he feel disappointed? He had disagreed with the girl. The Seer stepped back to regard him, searching. _Expecting?_ Then Zephon remembered.

"The historian, Jezal," he said. "He theorized a paradox. '_Something existing in two forms, as two points of history collide_.'"

Her eyes gleamed. "Some have hoped—and will hope—that he was correct."

"But how does one _do_ that?"

She shook her head, almost sadly. Even ancient oracles had limits, he supposed.

"Your place is no longer here," she said. "But you will need more than your wits in the days ahead. A gift." She held up a slender wrist, marred by a pale scar.

He had no trust left to give. "Why this generosity?" Nothing was free, power least of all.

"Take it as a favor, from one who cares to see this world continue. It would do you no good to try to counter the future."

Could anyone just _tell _him? Was it such sport to leave him floundering in the dark, scrabbling for answers? His old frustration uncoiled, no longer blunted by her soft-handed control.

But she had slipped, slightly. She admitted she cared. Zephon ignored her wrist, snaking a hand behind her head and angling her throat to his mouth. For all her power, her flesh was yielding. Her pulse jumped, but she made no move to dissuade his fangs.

Blood welled into his mouth, aged and rich. Something matchless—not vampire, not human, but spiced and powerful. And stranger, he could not feel it melding into him to join the whispers of every other being he had devoured. It remained distinct, coursing, changing.

Her hand came up to his chest. It was soft, but he felt it. A warning. And if he did not heed it, a gory end to her generosity. He stepped back, mouth bloody, anger dampened.

"Why is my life so important?" He asked.

She flitted forward, hands trapping his, her mouth sliding past his cheek.

"_I never said it was."_

Half a kiss, have a nip, and she was gone.

Or rather, he was. Suddenly he was no longer on a beach, though the air remained salty. He stood on flat, sparsely grassed earth. The moon had traded places with the sun. _Nosgoth_. Another scent soon stung his nostrils. _Blood._ He truly was home.

* * *

"It's better for you things happened as they did," Raziel said, regarding her from across the table. "If my brother came to Nachtholm, as he should have, he would have killed you out of hand."

Glavira could hardly echo his sentiments. She sat as far back in her chair as she could, half looking at the vampire on the other side of the table, half eyeing the tankard of steaming blood. Since becoming his unwilling guest, they'd joined back with his legion, several miles from the sea.

Raziel had returned to the tent an hour ago, back from a night of scouting that had turned into a skirmish. They were having trouble tracking Sandulf's troops. The force seemed to have splintered, striking out with no pattern.

"You should drink that," he continued. "If you feel like a monster now, you won't want to see yourself when you're starved."

"What happens?"

Erato had said nothing of what would happen, only urged her to drink whatever he offered. His own wrist once, when she spat out anything else, though he clearly hated every moment of it. She'd become manic at Nachtholm after Alaric claimed the castle, until she'd torn apart that servant. _Past _that point…

Raziel's smile had faded. A bad memory then. But to refuse to speak of it would appear craven, she presumed, for he soon answered.

"Forty of my clan and I were trapped in a mountain pass for five wretched months, straight through winter. One of your highborn families caused the avalanche that sealed us in.

She regarded him, not voicing the question in her mind. He understood anyway.

"What would your kind do in the same place?" he asked.

She didn't want to say, but she knew.

"Why do you kill any in your clan not turned by you?" she ventured, sipping from the cup. It seemed like infanticide.

Raziel smirked. "There was a giant cat that once roamed Nosgoth. A golden, maned creature, as big as a horse and a hunter of men."

"A lion," Galvira offered.

"I believe the word is _tiger_," he said, smiling like she was an idiot.

_Fool_. She glanced at her nails. They were solid black now, and cut her fingers when she was careless.

"A male ruled his clan," he continued. "If another defeated him, the victor's first act was to kill the former king's offspring. It ensures purity. And keeps all allegiances to us, never another."

"And if your sire made a request of your firstborn, one that conflicted with yours?"

Raziel paused. The twist to his mouth was brief, but she caught it. Such a thing had happened to him. She looked into him, imploring, summoning every scrap of imaginary kindness she could muster. She was tired of being the demure prisoner.

"If it were myself," she said, "I would feel sorry for—" He hissed at her then, twisting to look past her. Not angry, but shushing her.

Galvira heard nothing. The vampire lunged over the table, slamming her to the ground. Just as a flaming shot tore through the tent, embedding in a chest. Raziel was up before she could breathe, smothering the crossbow bolt with his cloak. He didn't bother with armor. His sword keened as he drew it, and he was off, barking commands at his legion.

She had seen the grim sentries as they entered the camp. Somehow, Sandulf's men had surprised them. She was halfway between giddiness and dread.

Horses squealed, orders raged, steel screeched. It was still too loud in her ears, all smashing into a cacophony.

Galvira grabbed the singed cloak—the morning sun was burning through the hole in the tent, and her eyes were watering. She stepped from the tent, hood low over her face.

Two riders cantered by, paying her no heed. They were coming from where they picketed the horses. That was where she would go.

A hand clamped on her wrist and she yelped in surprise. The vampire wrenched her back toward the flimsy shelter. She squirmed, hissing and clawing. The vampire was immovable.

"You're not even armed, you stupid bitch."

Galvira wrenched back the hood, clearing her vision—only for the sun to strike her eyes. She couldn't see, blinded by the light, but she knew that gravelly voice. The flicker of recognition was enough to set her teeth on edge. Raghar, or something like that. The vampire who'd taken over Nachtholm, who'd left it open for her husband to capture. Who'd ordered her death and condemned her to life.

"It's your fault!" she howled, slashing blindly with her claws.

He snarled, but she'd hit something. He let go, and she smelled blood and rancid meat.

The moment was too brief to waste. She pulled the hood back down and bolted. Her eyes were recovering, peeking under her cloak, vision still watery.

* * *

Alaric skirted the chaos. His horse picked its way through the forest, ears pricked and nostrils flared. At least he had a saddle, taken from the bandit's horse.

If this was the destruction of the vampires, he would be there, his life be damned. Sandulf had moved faster than he thought. His armies, always divided and mobile, had splintered into forces that hardly seemed strategic. Alaric would have thought Sandulf an idiot—they had tried that a century ago, and all it meant was that the vampires had easier targets.

Then he found the corpses. All vampires, impaled on spikes in a small field. Their hides were unscratched apart from impalement. The Time Steamer's staff had done its work. Somehow, history had circled back. Back when vampires ran from humans. Before the Sarafan Lord fell.

The Sarafan did rally, almost two centuries ago, ready to avenge their fallen lord. Kain destroyed their grandmasters and disappeared. Everyone knew he would return, but no one knew how. Until they discovered his vampire sons.

Still clinging to tradition and pride, the Sarafan fell to their training. The nobles rallied in their own lands, and fell to their short memories, forgetful of the vampires that haunted their history. Facing them as separate armies, they died. They next turned to smaller forces, to divide and conquer. And died.

By the time Alaric's grandmother was born, the lords finally put aside their autonomy and allied. They still died, including Lord Baldur, but finally with more vampire blood to show for it. Sandulf would not settle for casual alliance. When Lord Dracosa left the field to hide in Nachtholm, Sandulf captured his oldest son and took most of his army. After Alaric's father suggested a parlay, he was left outnumbered and besieged. Sandulf claimed the risk was too great to aid him. Perhaps it was. But for all his cruelty, his uncle was still fighting six vampire lieutenants and their master.

Now, with the Time Streamer's staff—was it possible?

He'd left his father's estate when the food ran out. A village had not been far. There he learned of the armies. And too, of a vampire that had terrorized their inn. His heart jumped when he saw a familiar necklace on the neck of a portly innkeeper's wife.

Despite a life dedicated to the contrary, he had not killed her. He was weak. Galvira wouldn't have suffered. She wouldn't have wanted to become a vampire. It was a moment that seized him. The same moment he'd looked down at his mother, her features twisted with corruption, his sword at her throat. Her same small smile as she made no move to defend herself. It was raw in his memory when he rode toward his wife.

If he found her again, he couldn't stay his hand. She deserved an end to her suffering.

* * *

Zephon knew he was near the Sea Canyons, on the other side of Nosgoth from where his ship had sailed. Was it amusing to make him walk all the way back to his clan? In the afternoon, no less. And he was without a cloak.

No, there was blood in the air. Vampire and human, tinged with salt and sand. He was on high ground. To the east would be cliffs. Not so far north the ground would fall away to a canyon, ending at the beach and sea. A dangerous place for a vampire. He would not even try to ambush a human army in the canyons. In no conceivable way would there not be reinforcements to turn the tables on his kin. Not with an entire ocean so near.

The Seer's blood coursed in his veins. What it was doing to him he had no idea.

Zephon paused, breathing deep. Horses. And not so far, hooves. He broke into a run, lungs full of sea breeze. He still held the harkbus. It did not slow him down; he supposed it would be worth study later on.

He could see the break of the canyon wall, and he sprinted. The sun was not tiring him like before. Perhaps due to the Seer's blood, perhaps it was his two months of unnatural waking hours. But he did not fool himself. Even without a blanket of fatigue, his strength was weaker during the day.

Under the moon, a vampire army meeting a human army would be no contest. It rarely worked out that way. The humans clawed tooth and nail for every scrap of daylight. It didn't even the odds. A sun-weary vampire was still stronger than a human. But it helped.

Zephon stopped as the ground broke away. It was the lowest part of the canyon, barely over a hundred feet. Below—the air hissed in his teeth.

It was Rahab, at the head of his cavalry. The horses were backing up. No, horses did not back up easily. The vampires were urging them back, toward the sea.

The humans were a mix of horse and foot. At the front of their ranks was a single man. Zephon's eyes narrowed. The man held a staff in one hand, raised high like a standard. A red and yellow wood, with a purple orb. At the heels of his warhorse stalked two massive hounds.

_Lord Sandulf?_ Zephon bristled. He was the bastard leader of the Blue Thrones—the thorn, the cruel hero, and the deranged madman if the stories were true.

Something about that staff had scared all reason out of the vampires. The backmost horses were already ankle-deep in water.

He twisted the harkbus in his hands. Just as the Seer had lured him to the beach, so too had he felt compelled to pick it up. It was loaded, ready to light. He had none of the rocks the villagers used, but his claws could strike a spark.

The fuse snapped and flamed. Zephon leveled it at the human. He'd never tried anything at that range, but he knew a bow could cover the distance. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Zephon looked at the stock. It seemed fine. Wet, perhaps, from standing by a beach, but that was all. Whatever the cause, it was now useless as a ranged weapon. But it was still a hard piece of metal and wood. Heavy. He hurled it, willing, cursing it to go where he threw.

Perhaps it was the Seer's blood. Perhaps he just wanted to see Rahab's expression. Against all luck, the metal clipped the man's head. It ricocheted into the horse and the animal reared. Sandulf's arms flailed on reflex, the staff flying from his hand. Then he tumbled and crashed to the ground.

But the rage that could make a vampire fight beyond reason infected Sandulf too. He was staggering to his feet as blood trailed down his breastplate.

Zephon had no idea if a vampire could even touch the staff. He did know it would soon be back in human hands—Rahab's forces still hung back, wary as wolves before a fire. His fool brother, always one for observance over action. Useful, when others gave into impulse and anger, stupid when a charge could save his life. Unless Zephon could force him to act.

_You did take on sixteen drunken savages and come out fine, what's a few hundred perfectly sober ones?_

Zephon unsheathed his sword and flung himself off the cliff. With enough concentration, he could slow his fall, just enough to not snap both legs. He went for Sandulf. A blade to the back, not the most noble way to die—

The human dropped to the ground, rounding on him when he landed, sword ready. Zephon rolled, keenly aware he was unarmored while the man was covered in plate. Still, with no helm or gorget, Sandulf left himself open to a blade to the skull. Zephon lunged, crossed swords, and whipped out a dagger.

But Sandulf knew where he would strike. He let loose a punch, steel and mail smashing into his jaw. The world spun—no, _he_ spun—and blood filled his mouth. _Fucking sunlight._ Every instinct screeched at him to snap back, to fling himself at the man's exposed throat. But not all vampiric instincts were right.

So he stayed, letting his head loll, legs rock. He saw Sandulf's lupine grin as he went to cut his head off. Zephon pitched forward, spitting blood in his face, going for his neck. His sword blocked Sandulf's, and as the man reached to deflect the knife, Zephon snaked it down, twisting the point up. Sandulf had chosen to leave his face exposed. Not his other parts. The dagger tore through his groin.

"_Fass_," Sandulf hissed, teeth locked to keep from screaming.

_Attack? _The hound smashed into his back. _Fucking dog. _

Zephon crashed into the bleeding man, chin splitting on steel. They landed side by side. The hound snarled and sprang away. Zephon barely got his foot up in time for the second dog to bite down on his protected heel. To his left, Sandulf was shoving himself up, gaping wounds be damned.

_Finish it finish it_—Zephon struck out with his dagger, driving one dog back. His other leg was under him. He needed a shield. He dropped his sword and shoved himself into Sandulf, rolling over until the man and all his plate armor were over him. _Fini—shit._ Teeth sank into his forearm just as Sandulf's steel bracer crushed his throat.

_Stupid man, I won't choke._ To be fair, he was probably trying to hold Zephon down while he bashed the vampire's face in with a sword pommel.

The hound had the arm with the dagger. His sword was possibly the one Sandulf was about to brain him with. Zephon couldn't tell for sure—a glance straight at the sun half-blinded him. He felt the hound let go of his boot. Doubtless for something more fleshy. The hoofbeats thundered in his ears, rattled in his jaw. Sandulf's men, finally coming to terms with their crazed lord's impending doom.

Zephon still had one free hand. All he needed. He rammed his claw and thumb into Sandulf's eye, or some squishy approximation. And it was his turn to get a face full of blood. The man's arm grew lighter as the rest of him grew heavier.

Metal armor clanged in his ears, hooves pounded. And the horses galloped over him. The hound at his wrist yelped and the fangs tore free. Not too painful; he giddily thanked the Seer for making him take a vambrace. It took him the briefest moment to realize he wasn't being trampled. That they didn't smell human.

Rahab had charged from the shore.

Zephon kicked the man off. Through his slowly-clearing vision, Sandulf looked surly, even in death. A proper story for fledglings. Once, he might have dragged the corpse off to raise as a vampire. The idea didn't hold the same poetic irony. _Let him rot._ The bastard was responsible for Nachtholm.

The first hound was speared through, its brother no doubt ground to splinters. Zephon licked at his face, tasting Sandulf's blood, his blood, and tears from the sun. Salty. His vision was almost free of white splotches.

Further down the canyon, the humans had broken. The cavalry fled, some vampires in pursuit. The rest were riding down the infantry. Except for the gray stallion galloping toward him. It slid to a halt as its rider swung off, blue-tinted armor unmistakable.

"I was hoping a sea monster would save us, but you'll do."

Rahab dragged him into an embrace. How could two months seem so long? When he pulled away, he was grinning. Rahab's cyan eyes glittered from dark rings—his eyes were thickly lined with kohl, to cut the sun's glare.

"How did you get back?"

Zephon smirked. "I befriended an old witch, who sent me through space. Time too, by a few hours."

Rahab snorted. The truth, whatever its exaggerations, was always so preposterous. But now he cared little about the Seer. He was home, and all the armies of man wouldn't keep him from his clan. Isana, Ghislain, Lishta…even Ruthven, he was forced to admit. He hardly cared for past wounds. Fighting for one's life was always followed by euphoria, provided one wasn't dead.

"Where is my clan?" He grinned. "Staying out of the thick of it, I hope."

The smile died on Rahab's face. _Dragged to the front lines?_ Even that annoyance couldn't sour him. But Rahab's tone was leaden.

"Your clan is gone."


	29. The Memory Redux

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 29: The Memory Redux**

* * *

_Gone where?_ _If this is a jest…_

Rahab's face was sangfroid but his tone was not unkind. "Brother…" His hands settled on Zephon's shoulders.

Zephon would not be calmed, and shoved away. "You will tell me _now," _he snarled. "What in hell do you mean?" _Sacrifice? Punishing me further?_

Rahab's blue eyes narrowed. "Take heed—"

"Lord Zephon?"

The gravel-strewn voice made him whip around. Familiar, if only just. It was Ryszard—or what had been Ryszard. The sight dashed the words from his mouth.

The vampire rode up on a dripping mare, her mane plastered to her neck. He wore a hood, but Zephon could make out his face. The scar Ryszard received as a fledgling was covered by a half-healed gash running ran across his visage, over an eye and through his lips, and ending at a lopsided jaw. He looked wasted, battered, with skin crumpled over old bones. The face of a vampire unable to heal from lingering injuries.

Something else looked wrong. Ryszard held his reins in his left hand, but his sword was on his right hip. An injury—Zephon realized his understatement. His right arm was gone.

Ryszard halted, looking between the two. Zephon cringed. His margrave never waited for permission to speak.

"Ryszard," he said, forcing every shard of ice into his voice. He was in Nosgoth again, with no Seer to curb his worst impulses. Perhaps he should have felt joy. He did not.

"Report?" Rahab interjected. "We have necessities before story time."

The vampire paused "Go on," Zephon growled.

"Raziel's main force is engaged to the north." The vampire's rasp was as dead as fall leaves. "He was cut off from Turel when the humans flooded a river."

Rahab scowled. "He left us to the fishes for _that_? Can they not build a causeway and meet in the middle?"

"They were hit by flanking horsemen and infantry," Ryszard said. "The forces converged."

Rahab looked down the canyon. His vampires were slowly returning to civility. Turel would be outraged, Zephon thought. The secondborn would never let his soldiers gallivant after food. Rahab's firstborn, Castiel, cantered back to his sire. His eyes were also blue, darker than his sire's.

"The Thrones' leader is gone," Rahab said. "I would hope my clan let some escape to tell the story. And I'm not leaving without the staff." Ryszard looked up, uncomprehending. Rahab smiled bitterly. "Raziel and I have been bloodied by a walking stick. But if he fights north, then north we will go."

He hardly looked excited. Rahab's armor was caked with dried blood, like sweat from a day of toil. He never said anything, but Zephon knew the sun wearied him more than the others.

Rahab turned to his firstborn. "Castiel, restore some order. And find someone to ride ahead and tell Raziel _'Help is coming_,_'_ or something suitably heroic."

His firstborn nodded and turned his charger. Rahab stepped over Sandulf's body and approached the staff. It was covered in dust, as striking as driftwood. Except for the orb, dark with dormancy but unscratched. Rahab knelt, hand hovering above it, hesitant to touch.

"If Sandulf had learned to duck…"

_You would have followed the unicorns._ Zephon followed him, molars grinding. "What_ happened_?"

His brother's eyes were far away. "It's the Time Streamer's staff. It decimated our distant kin—twice. The Sarafan used it for a time." He coughed, until Zephon realized he was laughing. He wheeled away in disgust, alighting on his battered offspring.

"You will tell me every detail," Zephon said. "If you leave anything out, you will wish that whoever dismembered you finished the job."

The vampire looked away. Zephon reached with his mind, sifting through his emotions and cursing at what he felt. The surly fighter was dead on his feet, wrecked and mangled far beyond his face and limbs. Guilt, grief…Zephon pulled back, not wanting to see more.

One of Rahab's captains offered him a mount, which Zephon accepted with curt thanks. Drawing alongside Ryszard, he caught his eye.

"Everything."

* * *

Ryszard crashed down the stairs, into the main hall. The table was packed with vampires. More stood in the alcoves and along the stone floor. Several called out in surprise as he staggered past.

Isana lounged at the head of the long table. To her left was Ghislain. Several chairs down sat Rahab, his fingers drumming slowly on a leather book. Her smile was proud and razor sharp. A threat they didn't see, but Ryszard didn't miss. She turned to her brother and pulled him close. He could feel the ripple through the clan—a mix of irritation and revelry. Until Ghislain tried to pull away. She held fast, lips moving like leeches. Ryszard saw the blood dripping from his mouth. She was—

Eating him.

"_Demon!_" His breath sputtered like the blood from his belly.

Ghislain was crying and clawing. Isana tore away, mouth coated in gore. The creature smiled once and struck again. Biting, ripping. Ghislain should have been able to fend her off easily—Isana was a limp-wristed excuse for a vampire. But not this demon.

Thawing from shock, the clan stirred, going for weapons, roaring curses. The damn fools doubtless thought treachery.

The twice-slain demon held out a delicate hand and they stopped. Ryszard felt the invisible claws constrict, and he cursed his slowness. But the force seemed weaker. A rope instead of an iron vice. If he pushed—

Not Rahab. He stood, arms locked and stiff, but showing no fear. Dropping Ghislain, the demon eyed the lieutenant with a bloody smile, and stepped onto the long table.

"Foolish witch," Rahab sneered. "My clan could level this place by dawn."

"_Ich denke nicht_." The demon smirked, a pace from the lieutenant.

Glass crunched as Rahab smashed something into her face. He hissed in pain while the demon screeched. His hand was blistering, but nothing like the melting rivulets that burned down her face. Rahab slid forward, dragged her off the table, and wrenched her forearm behind her back.

"You possessed a _vampire_, my dear. Did you expect to retain your power if you did not _feed_?"

The vampires staggered as the constriction ceased. But the demon did not look worried. Only furious.

"_Ich fordere Sie auf!_" it shrieked. "_Hashim, Arieh, Kefka, Azazel, Aphelion!_"

The roar split his skull, just as something burst forth from nowhere. A giant, horned thing, landing on the long table. Like the creature he fought in the cave. From Lishta's account, Zephon's soldiers had fought half a dozen of them when taking the Cathedral. But they were armed, armored, and organized.

More creatures leapt from fiery portals. The one nearest to him stood on four legs, its neck long and scaled. A dragon without wings. The closest vampire leapt at it with a sword and lost his head to a swipe of its claws. His body landed two paces from Ryszard.

One demon crouched by the giant doors, blocking the way out. The others began the slaughter.

Ryszard buried his pain. "_What the fuck are you staring at?_" he roared. "Kill that lizard and get to the courtyard!"

He grabbed the sword from the headless vampire. He'd had spears through his chest, knives in his back, and swords in his guts. At the end of it, fights were all the same. Make them spill more blood than you. He was finished with it being the other way.

The demon turned, its jaws snapping. Ryszard sprang and struck out, bringing the steel across its face. The sword caught on bone and the demon roared, jerking back its head. It wrenched the sword from his hand, Ryszard landing hard on his feet, pain spiking through him.

His sword was stuck in its snout. The blade was almost level with its bottom teeth. It should be—

Its neck twisted and it lunged. He sprang back, but its claws followed its teeth. Ryszard crashed into another vampire, just as a talon raked across his face. He staggered, swiping at his bloody cheek and torn lips and realizing one eye couldn't see.

The demon's teeth sank into his sword arm. Ryszard hissed, fighting every instinct to pull away. He grabbed with his free hand the sword still stuck in its snout. He wrenched it out, just as the demon bit down again. Something crunched. He hacked at its throat, cutting past its hide. Locked together, sword and fang, flesh and scales. It pulled him off his feet, shaking and screeching. Then he was plunging down.

Ryszard crashed to the stones. He kicked, pushed himself up, and landed facedown again. Blood bubbled around his mouth and nose. At least he didn't feel pain anymore. That wasn't good. With a groan he heaved himself onto his back. The demon collapsed beside him, gagging as blood poured from its throat. But Ryszard could see the flesh knitting. Something stuck out of its mouth. Ryszard realized it was his arm. To his right was a mess of ragged flesh and bone.

His orders had gone unheeded. Vampires spilled across the floor as others fought and bled. No one had even tried to bring down the monster at the door. Or perhaps they had, but died in the attempt. Through it all, he heard a laugh that once had been Isana's.

Another demon loomed over him, horns gleaming with red. It pulled back a heavy hand—and roared as it twisted away. Through his halved vision, Ryszard saw the spear jutting between its neck and shoulder.

Rahab hauled him to his feet, a leather-bound book in his free hand. His laggard's robe was soaked in gore.

"We're leaving." The lieutenant's words jarred him from his stupor.

"Like hell we are," Ryszard gasped, pulling back while slipping on puddles of blood.

But Rahab continued to drag him to one of the tall, stained-glass windows. He saw Lishta, and called out to her before he could stop himself. But she would never answer back. That would require a jaw.

Rahab hurled him through the window, shards slashing past his cheeks and remaining hand. It hardly hurt worse when the rain splattered his face. Rahab jumped after him. So did another vampire, his face cut and bloody. And a demon, snapping at their backs, but caught behind the window from its own bulk.

The lieutenant yanked him once more to his feet, Ryszard's arm hooked over his shoulders. Ryszard did not know the other vampire's name. The fledgling flinched and shivered as rain pelted his skin.

"Take a message to my clan at Carinth," Rahab snapped, not stopping. "Two-thirds will join me at Ancrath. Now."

"Yes my lord," the vampire whimpered, fleeing to the stables.

"Now to be gone from this death trap." Rahab whistled, and a silver stallion trotted past the young vampire.

The pain finally hit. Ryszard gagged on his bloody tongue as the ground swam. Suddenly he was on horseback, bleeding over a silver neck as Rahab pressed something against the ruin of his shoulder.

"Oh hell," said a faraway voice. Maybe his.

He knew he was blacking out, for a moment later he sprawled on a stinging bed of wet grass. Rahab slapped him.

"Zephon _ordered_ you to stay with me."

The vampire was reaching for something. Ryszard smelled fire and burning steel. Rahab straddled his chest.

"Bite down on this," he said, shoving a piece of wood into his mouth. "This will hurt like a hundred hells, but otherwise you'll bleed out."

The white-hot dagger pressed against the stump of his arm, and Ryszards howls split the night. Burning steel became burning flesh. Rahab held him down until his cauterizing work was finished.

"Zephon's going to blame me for this whole mess," the lieutenant murmured.

Ryszard locked on a thought, just as Rahab bit his own wrist and offered it. Ryszard drew on the wound. Enough to drive back the dark around his vision. Enough to feel like he could lift an arm again. He lunged as Rahab pulled his wrist away, grabbing for his throat, missing, and settling for his shoulder. His grip was pitiful, but his claws were still sharp.

"_Did you know_?" he rasped.

Rahab delicately plucked his hand off entwined their fingers. Enough so he could snap all of Ryszard's if he wanted.

"I considered the possibility," he finally said. "If the creature jumped from the fledgling to the archer, likely it could do so again."

Ryszard would have sacrificed the clan to hit him then. "_Why_?"

"Curiosity. I did not think it would summon a legion of demons. There are many ways to render someone harmless without killing him." Rahab saw his death glare. "We are going to Ancrath to meet my clan. I promise we will return. Level the place if needed."

"You swear this?"

Rahab squeezed his fingers, just short of breaking them. "Do not insult me."

* * *

Ryszard broke off, looking past him at Rahab, eyes burning. The sounds of battle grew closer—they had ridden through a small forest, grateful for the shade.

Zephon turned, neck stiff as winter frost. "And then, brother?"

The lieutenant's eyes were dark. "I promised we would. But we were not the first. The humans attacked the place. They failed to take it, but sealed it off with wards. That was when Sandulf mobilized, and I let the stasis remain."

"You left my clan to _die_?"

"The Blue Thrones moved in force," he snapped. "Would you have risked your life to save _my _clan?"

Zephon did not know. Rahab himself, certainly. Not so long ago he had almost thrown his life away in his Battle of the Savage Sots, but doubtless the Seer had a hand in his chivalry. Zephon smiled like cold death.

"Did I not just do that?"

Was he furious? He didn't know. Grief, rage, and the knowledge he had lost everything—it was a muddled quagmire, a cacophony of misery he was barely holding at bay. Thank the gods they emerged from the wood, catching sight of the battle.

The sight made him start.

"You have a gift for understatement," he edged at Ryszard.

Raziel was engaged. More to say, Raziel was holding off the entirety of Nosgoth. It seemed any horseman not fleeing from Rahab was on the field, along with pikemen and heavy infantry.

"Where did they all come from?" Zephon said.

Rahab reined up his horse. "The raped and the wounded."

Zephon's eyes raced through the battlefield. The lieutenants did not field nearly the same numbers as the humans, but never had he seen this many thousands at once. Raziel and a vanguard had taken a high ground; he was giving orders. His stallion, Malkuth, was covered in blood. Zephon noticed a large red stone, affixed as a pendant, hanging across Raziel's breastplate. The last time he'd seen it, it was dissembling a demon

"Where are Dumah and Melchiah?" he asked.

"Days away—I would guess now on a goose chase," Rahab answered.

"The rest of your clan?"

"Half are besieged, the rest are catching up to us."

"And Kain?"

"Have we ever known?"

Turel was caught behind a flooded river, most likely building a causeway. From his long years of military study, Zephon understood the maelstrom before him. They were fucked.

They needed to retreat, but the humans had gotten behind them. Raziel was encircled. Himself not trapped—doubtless his horse could tear through the lines and make its escape. But his clan was strangling on a noose.

Where was Kain? Would he step in if his firstborn was in danger? Zephon did not know, and did not want to count on it. More so, if Kain could fight an entire army by himself, why did the lieutenants exist? And so Zephon surveyed the field.

A charge from behind would rattle the lines. But this was not the bulk of Rahab's clan, only the best of it. Zephon glanced at them. A pretty lot, most taking after Rahab's slender, serpentine ways. Better at fighting alone than as an army.

"Sire?" Castiel stood in his stirrups, observing, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. His flesh was paler than usual.

He glanced at Ryszard. The vampire was transfixed, trembling slightly, a twisted gleam to his eye. Zephon groaned inside. His margrave had become a deathseeker. So far from the brave and cold vampire who fought for him in that accursed cave.

There was no strategy for this. No trick he could see. But his thoughts flickered back to that cave. An idea, malformed and stunted, came to his drained mind. A suicidal idea, but given the looming mortality before him…

"I have an idea. But I'll need a distraction to get to Raziel."

Racing through an army was no small feat on Gevurah, but he was on a common courser. And Rahab looked ready to pull his troops back into the forest.

"An idea?" his brother asked, dubious.

"It's better than charging them in a final blaze."

"Don't be suicidal." Rahab looked strained. Zephon knew he wanted nothing more than to pull back. Not from cowardice, but because this battle was lost, unless Turel suddenly appeared on the right flank.

Zephon smiled. For the moment, he could forget whatever had happened in his absence. "I'll be running too fast to think of death."

At last, Rahab unclasped his blue cloak.

"Go fast and they might think you are an outrider."

Zephon doubted that, but it was better than nothing. He fastened the cloak around his shoulders, feeling like he was about to gallop headlong into a fire storm. Then again, the wise men all said Kain's sons were as mad as their sire.

Ryszard was turning to say something to him. Zephon guessed what, and kicked the horse into a gallop before he could offer himself as a sacrifice. Zephon needed to reach Raziel alive.

The first soldiers were archers, reprieved from immediate action. They were not prepared for a horse charging past. The horse plunged through a hole in the ranks, racing past rearmost infantry. At first no one paid him mind, until one pikeman got a look at him from afar. Zephon angled the courser away before the man could spear him, the horse snorting as a swordsman stumbled into its path. He spurred it on, cursing it for not being Gevurah.

He saw the destrier from the corner of his eye, but couldn't turn his horse before the charger slammed into his mount like a catapult of metal and muscle. Zephon dived away as his courser went down. The knight had a sword and was plunging toward him.

Zephon feinted right and rolled left, right at the rider's leg. He yanked him off, driving him headfirst to the ground. He vaulted onto its back, turned the animal toward Raziel, and urged it on. Few could react to his drama with the knight. Few paid him heed as he neared the main body of vampires. He had forgotten he had to cross their ranks as well.

"Move!" he roared. A warhorse, whatever the rider, was nigh unstoppable at high speed. This destrier was covered in barding.

They seemed to part, just enough that he wasn't trampling them. The armor rattled along the horse's flanks, foam splattering along the peytral.

He was too slow to react to a force that leapt at him. Zephon crashed to the ground, already kicking and clawing at the vampire that had attacked.

"It's me you idiot!" he snarled.

It was Orias, who in best circumstances was not a boon companion. The vampire gaped, just as Zephon flipped him onto his back and punched his nose. Bless the rattled horse; it had enough dislike of the vampires not to bolt further into their ranks. Zephon leapt back into the saddle and continued on.

The high ground was little more than a small hill, rutted and torn from footfalls. Most of Raziel's officers had returned to relay orders, and the firstborn was looking for thickest part of the fray. How likely would Raziel agree with his haphazard idea? Zephon decided not to ask. He kicked the horse straight at his brother, who sat atop Malkuth. Of course Raziel had already seen him. He looked uncertain. The destriers collided.

Malkuth was immediately snapping, its jagged teeth screeching on the metal covering the destrier's neck. Zephon's mount shied just as Raziel yanked his stallion back. As they twisted away from each other, Zephon ripped the pendant from his brother's neck.

His gambit should have been strangled in the cradle. There was no certainty it would do anything. All Zephon could think about was a passage from his library. _Demons belong to the aether, not the physical world. Destroying its body is as damaging as trimming one's nails._ Back in the cave, the demon was simply gone. Or trapped.

Zephon hurled the orb as hard as he could. It sailed over the vampires, into the ranks of the humans. Gods save whichever fool stepped on it.

Raziel grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him half off the horse—Zephon wondered if he was about to break his neck—just as a roar rocked the ground.

The hellish demon towered over the men and horses. Light made it angry. Time caged made it hungry. It roared and tore at the nearest body. The closest humans were soon bleeding, dying, as the demon tore through the ranks.

It was only one creature though. Zephon hoped it would cause a shock, enough so the vampires could reorganize and push. The archers nearest the wood were regrouping, lining up shots, apparently caught between fear and friendly fire. They had no time to run when Rahab's force tore out of the woods, pounding toward the rearmost ranks.

Closer to the hill, the demon laid waste. Its claws sent people flying into one another, their bellies torn open. Horses shrieked and bolted, trampling whatever fool stumbled close.

Raziel had shoved him away to shout orders at his adjutants. He suddenly pivoted the stallion around, eyes fixed on the east. Zephon heard more hooves, another layer to the battle below. More humans? He wanted to scream. A demon against a full charge of horsemen—Zephon would not bet on the demon.

But the horse at the front of the charge was distinct—a hulking stallion, dark gray, with a splash of rust along its neck and shoulders. Turel's horse. His brother's glacial discipline was never more impressive than during a charge. There weren't many though, perhaps a hundred. The rest were no doubt tiptoeing across a hasty-made causeway.

They were still hideously outnumbered. Enough pikemen could break any charge. But now many of them were distracted by the demon ripping into their center.

Finally Raziel turned to Zephon, whose destrier had backed away, wary and worn. The vampiric stallion gnawed at a tight rein as Raziel approached.

"Don't think you're absolved. Join me?"

After _his _day? The last thing Zephon wanted was to throw himself into a battle. But sometimes, his better sense prevailed. Zephon unsheathed his sword and followed his brother.


	30. The Confluence

**The Resurgence**

**Chapter 30: The Confluence**

* * *

Her desperate escape was a desperate failure. She had run to the horses, not expecting even the mangiest nag to be gone. The surrounding land crawled with humans and vampires, neither who bore her sympathy. With a cry of misery that was slowly burning into rage, she found her way back to the large tent.

Not so long after, Raziel had stormed in. He snapped orders at his adjutants, hauled on his armor, and marched out looking as ready for battle as his warhorse. He had stopped before the egress, and shot her a look not mired in suspicion or mockery.

"If it's dusk and only the horses have returned, take one and run."

She'd seen his staff exchange looks, pride wrestling with trepidation. He had just admitted a chance of defeat.

Soon he'd left her to her own devices, whatever those might be. For the first time in—gods, she could hardly remember—she was bored. Not shaking with fear, not sulking in despair. She had waited for dusk, but her answer came by late afternoon.

First it was hoofbeats and footsteps, haphazard and accompanied by excited voices. Amidst the sounds of revelry, Raziel strode in, reeking of blood. Galvira's nose was stronger now; not all of it was human. As soon as the heavy flap closed behind him, his shoulders slumped and his stride turned sluggish.

She sprang up, still unused to her speed she in small bursts. Galvira had wondered why vampires rode horses when she'd seen them dart like arrows. It made more sense now. Quick movements were made before the thought was more than a fragment. Anything more than a few seconds and the effect dimmed. At a full run a vampire was still faster than a human, but far from the speed it took her to rise.

Perhaps because her alacrity allowed no time for thought, she flitted to his side. He waved her away, and gingerly leaned against the same table they had conversed at earlier.

"I'm fine," he said. "Help me get this breastplate off."

_Fine_ seemed to include a wound seeping through the metal plates. The side of his armor was scratched and punctured, but the breastplate was much the same as Alaric's. That did not mean she wanted to touch it.

"Have you no squire?" she asked. Even his adjutants were missing.

His golden eyes narrowed. "The approximation to one died a month ago. I will see if I need a healer."

Even vampirism couldn't erase a lifetime of conditioning; it was difficult to stand back while his order hung in the air, especially when it was a task she had done so many times before, if never for one who would force the assistance. The clasps were familiar, at least. She eased off the armor, perplexed at its lightness. Often she forgot she was stronger.

Something had cut into his side, just above the hip bone. She knew more about wounds than most women from her maidenhood. Following Alaric through skirmishes made her the wincing accomplice to his best surgeon, a deft-handed man who cared less she was a woman and more she could learn to stich a gash. She would miss him, except she knew he was dead, and missing the dead was pointless. But she did miss his lessons. It was good to feel useful.

She also understood retreating to relative solitude to asses one's injuries. A leader needed a spark of invincibility, so Alaric said. Thinking of him aggrieved her once more, until Raziel hissed when her claws grazed his skin as she peeled the shirt away to inspect the wound. She realized he never asked her to assess it. He did not push her away though; instead, he was looking down with smirking curiosity.

Galvira had knelt to see the gash better, surprised she could clearly spot slivers of wood amidst the clotted blood. It wasn't bleeding heavily anymore, but the skin still gaped. She thought a moment about what could make that kind of injury. The only ones with similar wounds were corpses.

"You were hit by a lance?"

He rolled his eyes. "_Grazed_ by a lance."

Given the vampiric capacity for healing, and her memories of Sandulf's morbid observations, she guessed the wound had been worse at the onset. His closest hand, still gauntleted, was covered in blood, and dried tracks flaked like rust from his greaves. Likely the splinters kept it from closing more.

"As you've already torn aside my clothes, would you kindly_ remove _the shards of wood buried in my flesh?"

This situation was ridiculous. With nothing else to do, she picked out the largest of the splinters. Just as the tent flap rolled back, and another figure ducked inside.

"Ah, you've wasted no time celebrating our victory."

The new vampire was all sharp panes and sleek lines. Strangest were his kohl-lined eyes—blue like burning sapphires. Only one clan of vampire had eyes like that, and only one would enter with such fraternity. She rose, cringing at his vulgar insinuation.

Raziel's indulgent annoyance melted, replaced by ire. "What the hell happened? Where did _he _come from?"

His brother shrugged. He must have seen battle, despite his casual jerkin and sleeves—Galvira noticed his hair was mottled in dirt. The kohl around his eyes had smeared, giving him a messy domino mask.

"Sandulf found the Time Streamer's staff," Rahab said with a look of misplaced jollity. "I win our bet."

He told of her uncle-in-law's final hour, of Zephon's dramatic intervention. The name made her listen. Would the Zephonim ever slake their thirst on her family? Raziel's return, Rahab's story, and the excited fervor outside all pointed to Sandulf's forces being smashed. And what had become of the sorcerer's staff?

"But when Kain hears?" Raziel asked pointedly. "And Zephon—does he even know?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if Kain orchestrated his return, considering the theatrics." Rahab's mouth soured. "Zephon knows his clan is one crippled outrider."

Raziel took her arm and presented her to his brother. "One crippled outrider and one bastard fledgling. I found her on the road to camp."

Rahab chuckled humorlessly and crossed the distance between them. He kissed her blood-flecked knuckles. "At least she's well-behaved for her age." She did not miss the hawkish appraisal in his gaze.

"She retained her memories," Raziel replied. "Like Zephon's Raginmar woman. This one stowed away with her human husband until—"

"—A guess as to how he discovered her fangs?" Rahab asked with a grin.

Galvira jerked away, wishing she had buried salt in Raziel's wound instead of helping. But his loose grip was still iron and he held her effortlessly. He snorted and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her up to the table beside him.

"Careful," Raziel stage-whispered. "You are amusing enough for your insolence to go unpunished. Do not abuse my hospitality."

Her sex had a gift for feigning smiles when the heart felt none. She twisted her lips into a fanged semblance. "Was Zeph—" she caught Raziel's warning glare. "Was Lieutenant Zephon…gone?"

"In exile," Raziel said. "Well deserved for his idiocy."

She had never thought about the lieutenants as singular beings. They seemed like a set of claws, no different except for the names they scratched from the world. The brothers in front of her had camaraderie, but also the good humor of those making an effort to put past grudges behind them. For the moment. And why should they not? They'd just butchered Sandulf's—her people's—army. The realization was cold; perhaps she had lost all capacity for grief.

Her eyes flashed to a sudden movement.

"What _adorable_ gossips."

A third had entered, his identity obvious. The vampire who dogged her family was shorter where Rahab was tall, slender where Raziel was muscular, and impetuous while the others were jovial. She thought the Spider Lord would be more sinister. She cursed herself. This familiarity was clouding her judgment.

Raziel sighed, a hand rubbing his brow. Rahab smiled widely.

"What else are we to do?" Rahab asked. "The humans are broken. We need just pursue the survivors."

"That's still a horde," Zephon said. "Someone could rally them and return to the fray—we need to cripple the remains." He offered a grin that suggested prodding. "That shouldn't take all of us. Help me retake the Cathedral."

She felt the tension ratchet the moment before Raziel exploded.

"_Enough with the fucking Cathedral!"_

Zephon hardly blinked. "I would have Lishta look at that wound, brother," he said. "Except she is dead."

Galvira recognized the name, but Lishta was his torturer, not a _healer_. The coy scent of blood distracted her; Raziel's wound had torn open. He looked at it with irritation. Galvira herself was stock-still, staring at the creature that ruined Alaric's family.

Zephon's baleful eyes met hers, and shifted to confusion. The rest of his face was a cold mask.

"Who are you?"

"A fledgling, obviously," Raziel said.

Zephon made a scoffing sound. "Whose? She's a bastard, clearly, and you'd have killed her if she was of your get."

Rahab moved to Zephon's side, a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Apparently the Zephonim are three instead of two. Or two and a half, if you are feeling judgmental."

Her sense for danger had been strong as a human—like a bird in a cage set to frantic flapping. Now it snarled, forcing her to see how easily her life could end. How easily it could always have ended, had she not forced herself to carry on.

It was slight, but Raziel edged closer to her. "She's my guest." His tenor carried a steely chord of threat.

"And my bastard offspring," Zephon snapped. "Of all my blood, you kept _this one_ in safekeeping?"

Was his clan really gone? Half-healed cuts slashed his chin and cheek. He wore only a jerkin over his shirt, but both were awash with blood.

Her memory shuddered back to Nachtholm, when the two vampires battled in the courtyard. From that day forward she had cursed any romantic story where two knights fought over the same lady. It wasn't romantic, it was horrific.

"Zephon." Rahab's voice had iced over. "Stop being a cock."

She knew Raziel was the oldest, but the Spider Lord paid more heed to Rahab. His taut stance loosened. Whatever his anger, despondency was stronger.

"Fret not, chance-child," Zephon said, waving a dismissive hand. "At this hour, I hardly care what my clan was hiding from me. How old are you?"

She sensed he did not mean her human birth. "Two months."

His eyes snapped to hers.

Raziel, seeming content to let their quarrel rest, noticed his stare. "Your clan always has the odd ones. She remembers her human life."

Zephon's jaw softened. Fatigue and melancholy were overtaking his temper. Galvira hardened herself. This was the creature that ruined Alaric's family. Who drove Sandulf insane. Her ancestors would be mortified to see her entertaining three vampires, when their corrosive plague had ruined Nosgoth.

Once more she felt the biting kiss of steel over her throat, the agonizing grip of the staff, and the raving beast above her. _"I was there the night she entered his room, with that spider at her side."_

Perhaps he sensed she would rather be neck-deep in sand than here. Their kind was a vicious lot.

"I want to speak with you." He held out an arm. "Take a walk with me."

"Zephon," Raziel growled.

"I'll return your lady love, worry not," Zephon sniped. "I said speak, not ravage behind the armory wall."

* * *

Zephon did not walk far, just away from the throng of revelry. This long apart from his kith and kin, he remembered why he found some of them insufferable.

The fledgling intrigued him. Not for her charms, though she was pretty enough with her sable-brown hair and wide-set eyes. He had only met one other vampire who remembered their entirety. Flashes of recollection were not rare, but her freakish calmness for her young age made it clear she was like Isana.

If only as far as memories. Isana was calm and wanton by turns. This one—Galvira, Raziel had called her—stared off in the distance, and the tautness of her shoulders traveled to the arm tucked in his. She acted as if she walked to the gallows. Never the most gallant, he could not resist scratching her nerves.

"From your ring, I know you're married into House Raginmar. You do know Sandulf is dead?"

She stiffened, her face tucked behind a hood.

"Yes." Her voice was throaty, halting. "You killed the creature you made."

He stopped. Not the answer he expected. "What was that, my lady?" He lowered his voice, promising threats. In truth he was amused, and far more interested. What he had thought was fear was closer to fury.

The fledgling turned to him then, her voice steadier. "The night when you took Ghislain, do you remember their younger brother? When Sandulf discovered my curse, all he could rave about was Isana—"

Her tirade silenced when he brushed a talon against her lips. The pulse fluttered in her throat.

"Isana had much to say about her little brother. He was already bedding madness. It takes little push to wed it." He smiled. "Why do you think he hated her liaison with Ghislain? What is the most depraved thing your demure mind can imagine?"

She winced, yet no flash of disbelief crossed her features. But she cast his memory back to that night. Doubtless his view was different. For him, it was immeasurably strange to sneak into a noble's estate with no plan to butcher the entire household. They had come for the young man. None too soon, as he was delirious with fever.

"Who made you?"

Zephon withdrew his hand. He wanted a distraction as much as an answer. Perhaps Kain knew he had returned. That did not change the fact he broke his own exile.

She told him who. Erato, how fitting. He'd found his corpse in the aftermath of a battle. His favored Gabrjel died by his hand; it seemed like fitting irony. Zephon reconsidered the fledgling. Her features did have a trace of familiarity—

"You're a Maziere." Her perplexed expression was answer enough. He laughed and she flinched away. "Your sire was one too. No memory of it, but still he was tumbling with his kin. What_ is_ it with you depraved nobles?"

He'd picked deeper without meaning to—one of his many gifts, some said. Her eyes blazed quicksilver and she lashed out, slapping away his raised hand and buffeting at his chest.

"Your kind dragged me from my husband," she snarled. "That bastard defiled me and when ordered to kill me, couldn't give me the decency of a clean death. Instead he brought me to this!"

Zephon grabbed her wrists when they came near his face, stopping short of hurting them. A self-loathing vampire? One could hardly hate what one was born into. This fledgling bared her fangs like a wildcat, hissing in furious grief. And yet, her sorrow was entirely too familiar.

"_What in hell?" _

_He dragged Isana back by her waist, off the balcony's ledge._

"_What is _wrong_ with you?"_

"_What _isn't_? Bastard!" She swiped at his face and he snatched her wrist, curbing his instinct to break it. _

_Below the balcony was a forest of death. They had removed the vampires from the stakes and replaced them with humans when they took the estate. The wooden tips still protruded from dead and dying mouths, easily able to kill a fledgling that landed on them. _

_The woman was mad. She'd awoken months ago with beautiful hunger, with glee and strange, unheard of memories. Sharper than any fledgling he'd sired, with none of the uncontrollable tics and oddities of the newly reborn._

_Combat was her main weakness. She had little interest in swords, and hardly more in smaller weapons. She could handle a dagger decently, but resembled a floundering mummer with anything larger than a child's rapier. Her temper was deft and sharp in contrast—Ruthven despised her. At least it gave him a reason to keep her close. _

_But in recent weeks she had withdrawn, turning her head from carnage and slinking away to the nearest bedchamber. Then she passed the fountain in the courtyard of the occupied estate and plunged her arm to the elbow. _

_He'd looked up from a desk to find her standing on the balcony's railing, leaning over, arms outstretched like useless wings. _

_Now she shuddered and made grating, choking sounds. Crying, that was the term. Humans did it enough, particularly the women. Vampires did not. As it was, vampires could barely produce saliva, let alone tears. She sounded like a dying mule._

_He let go of her wrist and took her shoulders. She was naked apart from a green robe. _

"_What is _wrong_?"_

_Perhaps her mind, without the blank slate of her new kin, had broken from her new life. _

_At last she collected herself enough to speak. It made little sense. Of life left behind, of loves doomed to fracture. He'd understood hardly any of it, except her shuddering mourning of a brother. Ghislain, she called him. Finally something he could answer. _

"_He can join us."_

_She had jerked up, face a flushed mess. "Become like us?"_

"_He would not likely remember his human life." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, forcing a grin. "You, my dear, are quite the freak."_

_She nodded, leaning in to his touch. "Our memories are kindred. He can have mine."_

"_As you wish." _

_The swiftness her sorrow could end always bemused him. A moment later her mouth was pressing against his, her legs wrapped around his waist. _

_Two weeks later and he followed her through a window. To _steal into_ a human home, what rot—but if it came to fighting, he would be facing over a hundred men, and that would be a mistake. _

_Waking, the human groaned. His sweet-sick sweat drenched the chamber. The gurgle in his lungs foreshadowed death. Isana flung herself at him, the male mirror of herself. _

Brother?_ That hardly seemed correct. But then, humans were unfamiliar to him when not in battle or the blood pantry._

_He heard the interrupter well before the youth barged in. Moments later they had to leave, lest he face those hundred and a half men. _

_Ghislain's neck snapped like a glass stem. Isana yelped._

"_He's fine," Zephon hissed. "You have to die to live forever."_

_He dragged the young man over his shoulder and Isana to his side. The intruding boy had vanished, leaving Zephon at first with an amused merit of his intelligence, and years later a rage he had not followed and smashed his skull into the stone wall. But such was life. _

It struck him then, the difference between the twins.

"How did he turn you?" Zephon asked her.

First she looked surprised, likely at how little he cared about her tale of woe. Then she glared. "That one-armed brute ordered him to kill me. Instead, he attacked me and forced blood down my throat."

"You didn't _die_?"

"I would not consider_ this_ life." Her voice was scathing, but he could feel her anger beginning to weaken. Some did not have the stamina to hate.

Her description was wrong. One had to draw the soul back into the body, then awaken it with vampiric blood. The human had to die first. Zephon hardly understood the _mechanics_, but that was the gist. To swap fluids was the romantic idea passed around in Sarafan-banned books, whose writers were too prudish to write about rutting.

But it kindled his theory. After deciding to turn the impudent noblewoman, he had drained Isana to what he thought was death, seeing no reason to waste good blood. He left her on her bed until they had taken the keep. When he felt for her soul, he sensed nothing hovering nearby. He fed her anyway, hoping to still feel that flare as the soul melded back with its body. She groaned as his blood dripped into her mouth—the sound startled him. Perhaps she wasn't dead; there was little difference between one wavering at the point of death and stepping just past it. His bewilderment only increased when she awakened fully, mewling about a headache and then marveling as it vanished.

He never made another vampire like that. Kain made no uncertain terms as to how their clans were to grow. Perhaps one could fall through the cracks, but not two. Until now.

The fledgling had been at Nachtholm; it was impossible to be otherwise. Likely she had a part in its fall. By rights he should execute her. But time was a cruel healer. His fury at Nachtholm had faded, replaced by the pain that his clan was slaughtered to a man. In part because he had insisted they come together to settle the temporary change in leadership. Because he failed to see the monster in front of him. Whatever her role in wounding his clan, his was far worse.

* * *

His expression was transfixed, racing. Galvira was cruelly reminded of Alaric when he studied a map. Finally Zephon looked up, and seemed to remember he was grinding the bones in her wrists. He let go.

"You're something different," he said simply. "But if you hate yourself, why not end it? Surely your husband would have killed you had you not escaped."

Did he know her part at Nachtholm? Could she really have stayed idled within its walls while Alaric planned his attack?

"I never escaped," she said. "My husband wouldn't kill me, even when I threw myself under his sword. This wretched curse won't let me end it myself."

He was…laughing? Softly, not cruel by tone but by timing.

"What a sweet melodrama," he crooned. "But there is nothing making you live except your own self-preservation." He placed his thumb and fingers around her neck. "You are young enough for a broken neck to kill you. Merely say it. It might not be the theatric end you envisioned, but it is an end nonetheless."

His talons prickled her nape. The feeling thrummed like a quarrel—the exhilaration of having no fear, because she merely had to speak a word to save herself. Coupled with the revulsion of an ultimate end. She shook her head.

Zephon smiled, not without a trace of mockery. "Wonderful, you have backed away from the ledge. Long life to you, wherever you choose to go."

"Where I _choose_?" What a foolish thought. She waited for a twist to his glib words.

He patted her cheek, and kissed her knuckles with his free hand. "Yes. You backed away from the ledge. I did not."

The vampire's smile was frozen and false. Whatever had crossed his mind in their brief meeting had led to a conclusion far removed from her. Zephon turned and walked away, leaving her alone.

* * *

Alaric knew he would not have made a difference. He still felt impaled by the defeat. The thought crossed his mind to catch up and rally them, but the advantage was lost. The three lieutenants'' confluence made a frontal assault a suicide charge.

He knew Sandulf was dead. It did not make him sad—he hated the man—but it deadened any remaining hope. Humanity had finally produced a creature ferocious enough to drive back the vampires, and now he lied battered and broken.

He did not know what became of the staff. Doubtless destroyed by the vampires, or at least their slaves. One could hardly expect the ghost of Moebius to appear and smite them all. Sandulf claimed the Time Streamer was an ancient ancestor, just as he claimed an ancestor once ruled the Sarafan. Likely they were lies meant to inspire a weary army. Time was a cycle, but an unjust one. To think that in a thousand years humans might reclaim their birthright was little comfort to the plague spreading now.

The stream burbled as he drank. To any human, the most calming sound was water. Beside him, the brindle stallion nibbled at greens.

A gaping chasm of_ what_ spread before him. He'd thought to destroy the Zephonim, but the clan itself was scraped from the earth. He had no idea how—it was certainly not humanity's doing. Zephon himself was ensconced with his older brothers.

The noise made him stop. The opposite bank of the stream was higher, and the ground led to denser woods. The sounds carried. Racing footsteps, human, and growing louder. He picked up the small crossbow and loaded a bolt. Then he unclasped his cloak and pressed it into the water.

Three men tore from the thicker wood, running like a dragon flew after them. Or vampires.

Doubtless his comrades had splintered from the vampire's pursuit. He had seen more dead than alive in the last several hours.

The vampires emerged behind them at a lope, unmounted yet still faster. Both were smiling. They could have caught them long before, but now they played. So fervently, he guessed they didn't smell the stream. Or didn't care. It was jumpable.

Alaric remained crouched. The horse was snorting, torn between instinct and training. He waited and hoped the vampires would play just a little longer. Long enough to reach the stream.

Finally he stood, aimed, and fired the quarrel. His aim was marred by the wind and it took the second in the chest. The armor kept it from going deep, but it startled it enough to jolt to a halt. The first gathered itself, preparing to leap at him. Alaric was already on the stallion, and spurring it over the bank, sopping cloak in hand. He galloped past the humans and swung at the first vampire.

Ridiculous, and hardly worthy of a song, the wet cloak caught it in the face and it tumbled.

They were fledglings, without the larger ears of their elders. Slower, less pragmatic and more predatory. The closest human stopped and turned, drew a dagger, and dove for its face. The other two had no swords but turned to cover their companion.

Alaric did have a sword, and a warhorse. Not the wisest—the horse was unarmored. But even a vampire, at least a fledgling, couldn't stop the charge of a trained destrier.

The second vampire jumped to the side, rolled and sprang at him. Vampires depended on short, impossibly fast bursts of speed. Knowing this, they could be predicted. Alaric's sword was swinging wide as it came at him in a blur, and the blade sliced through its outstretched arms. It dropped in a bloody heap, shrieking like a banshee.

He'd killed it. Vampires healed fast, but even their cursed regeneration couldn't stop a double amputation from bleeding them dry.

The vampire flopped and rolled, blood spraying, still howling. It was the shrieks that made him end it. He swung off the stallion's back and decapitated the creature. The other vampire was silent too—a dagger to both eyes had that effect.

"Lord _Alaric_?"

He didn't recognize the three men. Two men, he corrected. The slender youth who'd attacked the wounded vampire was a woman. Her hair looked dagger-cut, framing cheekbones delicate despite the dirt and dried sweat.

"Just Alaric. Did not Sandulf proclaim me a traitor?"

The first man was wide-eyed and panting. Dried blood cracked across his brow. Regardless, there was a strength to his voice.

"He said you died—that your wife was seduced by the bloodsuckers, and returned as a spy. She killed you while—" he broke off, somewhere between embarrassment and gallows humor. His glance downward told Alaric what wild vulgarities his uncle had spread.

"Idiot!" the woman wiped her dagger on the cloth around her neck. The three were dressed in a motley of metal and leather, clearly far from the upper ranks. "You wouldn't know slander from your arsehole."

There was something familiar about her features, in the way her eyes, cheeks, and nose met. Her teeth were white, and her skin far smoother than a life of field work or soldiering allowed.

"My lady?" he asked.

She laughed roughly. "I haven't heard that since people called me Amalia von Quarz."

"You're dead." _And more_, but he held his tongue.

"No, just my mother and sisters." Her voice was bitter and jovial at once. "Your uncle thought it would make a better story if my entire family was raped and butchered. At least, it freed my mother's castle from any inheritors."

_Ah._ Lord Sandulf's current estate wasn't his by birthright—that was razed by the vampires. He took the far more defensible estate after the von Quarz family was tragically wiped from the map. And Amalia—she was a ruffian with an overindulgent father, who enjoyed hunting to gentler hobbies. Now she was half sinew and half vampire-killing fury.

"You were like a sister to Galvira," he said, torn between the joyful relief at finding someone from the past who was more than a memory, and the anger that she thought them so enslaved to Sandulf's whims. "You should've come to us. She mourned you!"

The woman spat on the ground. "You know what he did to vampires. Would he stop at his own kind? Bastardry aside, he fought them. Bigger plan and all that. Swordfighting is better than needlepoint anyway."

Her eyes darted to the third of their party. He was raw-boned, handsome in a lowborn way. Swordfighting indeed.

Her companion eyed him. "Are you leading now?"

Alaric had no idea if he even wanted to. He assumed Sandulf would denounce him as a traitor to scare any from giving him shelter. Right now, he wanted little more than a warm bed and Galvira back. Both, it seemed, were to be forever denied. He checked his rampant thoughts. His father would frown at him now…it was not about _wanting_, it was doing what his people needed. But he had also promised Galvira. To end her suffering, or kill the one responsible? He tried to remember. Galvira could be halfway across Nosgoth. Zephon was near.

"My uncle is dead," he said. "Spread word I am not. Lady Amalia, your home is yours, but Nachtholm is closer. Tell any you find to rally there. I will join you soon."

"Why not now?" she asked. Always impertinent—the girl he remembered, sharper edged now, but regal nonetheless. It was good to find those from his youth who hadn't become vampires or madmen.

"I have one last thing to do." And it occurred to him this might be the last promise he could make. "If I do not return, find Joren Grimm. He was my second."

He left the cloak on the vampire—it was too wet and rank with melted flesh to wear anyway. He stopped to pull the bolt from the decapitated vampire. Finally Alaric mounted the stallion and rode off. Three days, he told himself. If he couldn't find a way to kill the vampire in three days, he would return to Nachtholm. He couldn't ignore the broken remnants his uncle left behind.

* * *

Zephon arrived at the pickets, noting which horses looked fresh enough for a hard ride. The spiked fence encircled them. Finally he chose a black courser, just as he sensed the figure behind him.

"I'm coming with you."

Ryszard walked differently now, balance shifted and feet shuffling. Zephon turned and eyed him coolly.

"No, you're not. It's my responsibility."

"You left me with that too."

Zephon sneered. "And you dropped it like a malformed infant."

He wasn't angry. Not truly. He couldn't blame Rahab for self-preservation. He couldn't blame Ryszard for not predicting the First One. He couldn't blame Isana for thinking she could out-guile a creature far older and more cunning. He could blame himself, for he was the only one left. But he knew that look in Ryszard's eye.

It was the opposite of what he'd seen in the bastard vampire's eyes when he'd laid his hand on her throat. That flame of exhilaration, of facing death without fear while knowing death would somehow be averted. It was the same look he'd seen in Isana when she was human, and death, as it turned out, was dissuaded.

"You're not sacrificing yourself," he continued. "That's an order."

Ryszard smiled the empty grin of a death seeker. "Then I'll ignore it. You don't know that creature. I do."

And Zephon knew he would. He'd arrive at the Cathedral and find Ryszard galloping up, ready to die. Sometimes, he had to be cruel to be kind.

Reaching for the taller vampire's shoulders, his eyes never moved.

"Do you think I'll let you off so easily?" He grinned, fangs bared, and pushed, forcing his margrave backward. Two claws pressed into the ruin of his arm and Ryszard flinched. "You lost my _entire fucking clan_. You don't get to just die and leave it behind." He kept walking toward the pickets. "If you die, it'll be by my hand. Not some wretch who can't see his world is over."

Zephon shoved, forcing the vampire to overbalance. Ryszard slammed onto the pickets, and Zephon jerked back to avoid a spike to his own chest.

Ryszard's breath wheezed out as muscles tore and ribs cracked. Zephon missed his spine on purpose. The vampire would live easily enough, for Rahab and Raziel had their share of healers. But it would slow him down for a few days.

He patted his cheek, wiping away the blood that trickled from the vampire's mouth. It wasn't pouring; he would not bleed out. "Actually, I don't blame you. Not much."

Zephon turned to the black courser. Swords and daggers hung from his belt. He had cobbled together some armor. His Serioli plate was sadly locked away at the Cathedral, but he could improvise.

Rahab claimed the humans warded the place. Why they were there at all, Zephon did not know. Perhaps to employ the demon-summoning priests, or to steal their books. His own demon had not survived the fight—when it took down one of the Razielim, his older brother ordered his archers to aim for its eyes. War made men do desperate things. Maybe the humans had no interest in the books and were instead interested in the organ. His temples ached at the memory.

Whatever the wards, he doubted they covered the sewer entrance he'd ordered Frejke through what seemed like an era ago.

"_Zephon, I'll go with you," Rahab said. "Give it a week until we've dealt with the humans. It's not going anywhere."_

_It was just after the battle, on the ride back to the camp. The cries of victory were lost on him. Raziel was moving amongst his walking wounded, offering approbation and orders not to die. _

"_Every day that creature lives is an affront," Zephon hissed. "I'm leaving today, like it or not." _

The sunset had streaked the sky in blood. A fitting path.

He jumped the horse over the jagged fence. It was just before feeding time—Ryszard would be discovered in moments.

Zephon would not let his margrave ride with him. Not with that look in his eye. It too much mirrored his own.

* * *

Galvira watched him take down his own blood, though she could not feel sorry for the brute. The overbranching tree and hood shaded her from the too-bright sun.

Her grand-sire, so Raziel said. The word was nothing in her mouth. As were her curses.

The camp was at the top of a hill, like any she would find among her own kind. _Former kind_, she amended. She had little left of them. Her highwayman's stolen garb was replaced with a simple gray gown, long-sleeved and belted. Raziel's main female adjutant had supplied her with it. In truth, she missed the mobility of the highwayman's ensemble. The Maziere necklace was now around her throat, as the dress lacked the pockets of the former.

Another shape caught her eye. Likely several miles away, but she could make out his features just enough.

_Alaric? _

Galvira quailed. He had lost his cloak, but otherwise looked the same as the night he galloped passed her. On the same horse, no less. He was following Zephon. That, she inferred from history as much as his direction. Zephon, the death-dealer to his family.

She had to see him once more. To ask why he spared to her. To…see him. Just see. She had thrown herself into the wolf den to help him take Nachtholm, not knowing what would happen. She expected a mangled end, not this unending one.

The pickets had a single entry. Galvira passed the bleeding vampire and found a brown mare that looked healthy. There was no saddle or bridle. But she had been a noblewoman once. She had ridden since she could walk.

Sunset covered the ground in a bloody tint. Fitting, she supposed. What other path was there now?


	31. The End

**The Resurgence **

**Chapter 31: The End**

**Author's Note: **It's been such a fun ride. Thank you all so much for your support. I'm always trying to improve my writing and storytelling. Please leave me your feedback…I like Nosgoth too much to leave it! :-)

* * *

Zephon cursed as he walked the blown gelding, the horse trembling between his legs. Decades of riding Gevurah made him thoughtless of common mounts. At this rate he would reach the Silenced Cathedral in time for the next human revolt. Hindsight-wizened advice chided him that he should have brought a second mount, but that would have required finding a lead rope of some kind, and that would give him more time to reconsider his course.

He also scanned the horizon for a fleeting white wolf. Languishing in exile had given Zephon time to think. _"Where is Kain?"_ Castiel asked after they'd routed the human army, as if Kain would appear and present him with flowers and cake. "_What is Kain?"_ might be the better question._ Does he feel like two feet or four today?_ But if Zephon were to guess, the Emperor had been near Turel and Raziel's causeway. The few Razielim building the structure swore a contingent of pikemen and heavy infantry were a quarter league away, until suddenly they were not.

Something else was near. Halting the weary horse, he reached with his ears and eyes. The dark weaved with chitters and scurrying, a fervor that drove some fledglings to agony. One learned to sift through it. It sounded like hoofbeats. The gelding made a panicked snort and shifted beneath him, too tired to bolt quite yet.

Zephon finally saw the red-tinted eyes and his heart leapt. The stallion's mane was a mess of snarls, his legs covered in grime. But he would always know that walking nightmare. Gevurah stopped, ears flicking. He licked his lips, a sign of listening for a normal horse, but also one of hunger for the vampiric stallion. Zephon dismounted the sweat-slick courser and gestured his assent.

Soundless, the stallion attacked before the gelding could scramble away, his fanged muzzle tearing at its neck and his forelegs battering it to its knees. The Lieutenants trained their destriers not to attack their clans' own mounts, but only without permission.

Zephon watched with heartsick happiness. He feared the stallion dead.

Blood splattered Gevurah's nose as the stallion noisily finished. He turned his large head, one eye glittering with annoyance. Ears pinned, he lunged.

"Stop that!" Zephon snapped, swatting it across the muzzle.

They were stallions, even now, and required a firm hand. Even when they ceased testing their riders, Zephon always felt he was bargaining for the stallion's cooperation.

He reached and ran a knuckle down the small groove between the horse's eyes. _Friends again?_ Gevurah's jaw worked, dripping shreds of horseflesh but showing his better temper. There was no time for further niceties. Zephon vaulted onto the stallion's back and urged him on with his calves.

They made good time.

* * *

The wards reeked of magic. Not particularly strong. Rahab could have disabled them. But then, Zephon was trying actively not to stay sour.

He trotted Gevurah up to the sewer entrance, a fair distance from the structure itself. As he thought, it was unwarded. Wrenching the grate aside, he stepped into the darker hole. It seemed quite disused. At least he would not have to wade through filth.

Laying out his thoughts, Zephon pondered how best to avoid his suicide. _Fight the weapons you can, take away those you cannot. _His sire's advice, from so many decades ago.

The creature could tear people apart with its mind and summon demons when its own abilities were strained. Likely it could fight on its own merits. Calculating those factors, stealth seemed the only real option to injure it. _Disable_, not _dismember_, he reminded himself. It had possessed Trennen sometime after Selik died. Likely it possessed Isana the same way.

Perhaps it was locked in a body until the physical form died. His mind toyed with the idea. A dangerous path, to make assumptions._ What if it can just float away, like a demon from the_ Tales of Kripke_?_ Soon he emerged in the undercroft, his churning thoughts not impeding his stride. The stone was cool and silent. He had been here only once. To—

The faint scent caught in his nose. Stronger was the reek of blood. Human and vampire. Vermin and rotting flesh. But just below that he smelled something else. Kin.

Several sarcophagi sat in the undercroft's center while more were embedded in the walls. He looked for just one. The unadorned stone slab moved with effort and screeched like the dead. Zephon cursed, but peered inside.

Frejke's battered form lied within, just where Zephon had left him. The scout was old enough to survive a dire amount of injury, such as falling from the Cathedral as a living fireball. But some injuries healed better in the dark. Lishta had advised feeding him just enough to slowly heal. Too much blood too soon and the vampire would waken. Zephon had known vampires to go half-mad when they awoke to a body that was little more than a prison.

Recalling Ryszard's mention of a blood shortage, Zephon knew Frejke had barely begun to mend.

_A crippled outrider, a bastard fledgling, and a ruined saboteur._ His family grew by the day, with his horse the strongest of the lot.

He crept up the stairs to main floor of the Cathedral. The stairs opened to a pantry and kitchen. Wrinkling his nose, he grimaced at the skeletons that hung and sprawled in their chains, and the colony of rats that paid court. They screeched when he appeared, all yellow teeth and writhing fur. Starvation or eaten alive by rats—had Zephon not been wrung dry of any pity but his own, he might have cringed.

Continuing to the door that led to the Cathedral's main hall, Zephon nudged it a crack and peered through.

Zephon fought back a howl.

The hall was strewn with bones and limbs, heads and torsos. Scattered remnants of cups and candlesticks covered a massive table that had cracked in the middle, forming two halves, while most of the silver was strewn across the stone floor.

A flicker of hope had made him wonder if the creature kept some of his clan as prisoners. The flicker died. He could make out few individual faces; death made brothers of everyone. Contrary to myth, vampires did not turn to dust. They decayed like any good corpse, albeit slowly. The rats had not come this far.

Morning light pooled in from the broken window, though Zephon knew the jagged frame was warded. His fangs extended in fury when he saw the altar and organ. The altar was gone. Or rather, transformed. The creature had erected a throne, crude and lopsided. A throne made of bones, where the First One held its court of necrolatry.

"My lord Zephon has returned?" Isana's voice fractured the silence. "I would fain see my sire. Do come out."

_Her voice, nothing more_, Zephon snarled to himself. _And there dies my attempt at stealth, and myself like to follow._ She lounged on the throne, dressed in rags of black and red. Her delicate face twisted in a smile, exposing teeth and fangs. Though the resemblance was good, her eyes were wrong—instead of dark and ringed, they were bright and gold, reflecting the morning light. The flaw stilled his mind.

Pushing open the thick wooden door, he stepped into the hall and made a short bow. "Hello, fair Isana. But I wanted to talk to Wretch." He forced an embarrassed chuckle. "_Ah_, my pardon. Rathar."

It was a guess, but his mark struck true. The creature cocked a brow, smile growing crooked. It hurt, somewhere deep inside. He knew that smile, though its rightful owner was two months dead.

"That name…"

"You haven't heard it since you were tupping that historian." He dredged up a wider smile. "Sorry to swallow your sunshine, Rathar, but you really cocked up your plan to stay here."

From the green orb on the island, Zephon remembered the First One's hate and its bitter oath to remain. The Seer said others failed, wedging themselves between worlds. Likely Rathar choked down a cup of vampire blood and expected to walk out of the cave unbanished. Remembering the cave's murals of the ancient vampires, Zephon supposed it was a good place to find an unwilling blood donor.

A bone-cracking sound came from the First One. Laughter or growls of rage, it was hard to tell. Until Zephon saw Isana's hand reaching up and twisting—he dived away, rolling behind the ruined table. The force still hit. Like a watery breath it passed over his back. Nothing more.

Rathar looked surprised. Zephon felt likewise. His blood seemed to hum, and the realization made him stifle a laugh. The Seer said he lacked the aptitude of his sire; sadly Zephon would not be hurling vampires into walls. But it seemed to blunt the wretch's power. Zephon jumped onto the table, ready to hurl himself at the First One.

She slid to her bare feet. Her fingers flicked. Just as the table reared beneath him, struck by a power not restricted to the living. At least Rathar's telekinesis was blunted, one weapon slapped away. That left—

Zephon pitched himself forward, snatching a heavy goblet that rolled by his feet. Racing up the slanting—still rising—length of the table, he heard the expected retort.

"_Ich fordere Sie_—"

"Shut it!"

With a leap he cleared the table's edge, hurling the goblet, landing in a crouch at the same time he heard the wet crunch of metal on tissue.

A pained wheeze. Isana's form stumbled, a hand clawing at her windpipe.

"Something in your throat, Rathar? Perhaps it is your throat."

"_Why in such a hurry? You know how this ends. Your whore did not, though it was merry to see her try so hard. She tried to stab her own heart when she realized."_ The voice ricocheted in his mind. It was raw, mad, and just slightly sibilant. An eon removed from the warrior in the green orb, but the same nonetheless. Hate aged well, at least.

Her figure wavered. Zephon stood, only for her face to reappear a pace from his. Lashing out, her claws raked across his cheek, and a backhand cracked his jaw and sent him reeling. He heard several pops. One for his jaw, two for a finger. The creature flexed a hand, heedless of the damage.

Even vampires had a barrier to their strength. It saved their tendons from ripping off bone, even if such barriers could crumble in certain moments. As a parasitic puppeteer, Rathar had none. Isana had never struck that hard, even when Ruthven called her a dockside tart.

Zephon's dirk and sword were out, the former stabbing and the latter smashing at her with the pommel. The blade bit into a forearm, slicing down to the bone. Catching on bone. Her uninjured hand grabbed his, yanked at the dirk, and wrenched it around.

White-hot pain tore through his side as it slide between his ribs, faster than he could bring his elbow down. Faster than he could think. But if Rathar wanted the blade back, he would have to pull it out. Zephon hooked an arm around Isana's neck, dragging her into an embrace.

His eyes fixed behind the creature, past the throne, and on the looming pipe organ. Zephon dragged, shoved, staggered. Anything to haul himself to those dull-gleaming pipes. Rathar replied with strangled shrieks, with sawing the blade down the gap in his ribs and shredding anything beyond. Fangs bit into the meat of his neck, chewing, ripping. Zephon could hardly retaliate. His claws found her face, scrabbled at her eyes, but his own never left the organ. When Rathar dug his heels in, Zephon kicked at a kneecap, shattering the bone, and continued to drag the unbalanced creature.

"_So quick to destroy me?" _it snarled in his mind._ "Any wounds you take will not stop me. I'll take you, have you—"_

A final heave and he smashed her into the pipes. Zephon was prepared for the agony. He kept his jaw loose, let everything go slack. The First One was too busy tearing a chunk out of his neck.

The explosion of sound felled them both. He saw white, felt the crack in his jaw widen, and wondered if he would ever hear again over the incessant bells. At least the creature was unprepared—Isana had collapsed in a ragged heap, twitching and shaking. Zephon was on his knees, one hand still on his sword, the other on the dirk buried in his side. Blood pooled in his mouth faster than he could spit. Somewhere far away he thought he heard a horse shrieking.

With a shivering groan he pulled out the blade. Perhaps unwise, but he could not imagine rising to his feet otherwise. _So weak._ Two months of softening on a placid island followed by three days of hard fighting and riding with a single feed and he was expecting _not _to die? Where the lie even began he had no idea.

Vaguely, he felt the magic of the wards receding. Battered away by cacophony. As if he could make it through the door. Using the sword as a cane, he pushed himself up onto two feet, the world unsteady and still far too loud.

"_And then…I will find your bastard brothers. Embrace them as they were loath to ever touch you."_

The sound cut through the bells. Isana's form was unwinding like an automaton, arms juddering for balance as Rathar jerked her body to a stand. At least one eye was damaged. His claws had torn through her brow above her other eye, streaking half her face in red. _As if he needs eyes._ Zephon knew a vampire who was blinded as a fledgling, who hardly suffered. Rathar was older than Kain, even if most of his time was in stasis. Isana's damaged eyes were still focused on him, heedless of blood or pain.

_And you thought you could win? _His own voice, high and mocking. Had he waved away Rahab out of arrogance, or out of suspicion they might both die? It was hard to remember over the ringing in his ears.

"_And kill them like dogs."_

Zephon stumbled toward the door he had entered. His thoughts were mud-logged and brackish, his only clear picture the sarcophagus below.

He felt rather than heard the footfalls. Rathar bolted after him, slowed by the broken kneecap. The slamming door caught him for but a moment. The moment allowed Zephon to reach the stairs to the undercroft. For Isana's claws to tear apart his chest, and Zephon to drag them both down. He made sure to land on top, feeling her shoulder blades crack between him and the stone stairs.

The room was colder. His blood was leaving him, just when he needed it most.

"_I'll take your eldest brother,_ _and_ _kill your cursed sire where the General failed. Rip open the skein and usher back my kind…" _

The First One remained in a broken pile. Zephon's knees buckled when he reached the sarcophagus. He heaved himself onto it, thanking anyone who would listen that he did not close it.

Frejke's razed form stared up at him, eyes like burst sores. _Too much blood too soon and the vampire wakens…_

He clawed open his wrist and held it to the vampire's mouth. The blood dripped. Slow and sluggish.

Rathar was half-blind. Wounded, heedless of his current body. Zephon heard the snaps and cracks as Isana's battered form stood once more, slithering along the stone wall.

Zephon tore the cut wider, shredding the flesh, cupping the wound at his side adding the blood to the flow. More pops and hisses. This time from below him. Jaw muscles rebuilding, fighting to clamp around his wrist. Steadying his free hand, he reached down and gently plucked out the saboteur's ruined eyes. This far-gone, they would not even register as an injury.

Sometimes one had to bleed for his clan. To sit there and bear it as another took away life. Blood was life to his kind. And now it was leaving him.

The tomb was hell frozen over. Rats squirmed on the level above, their claws causing clicks and clacks through the stone. And Rathar was close. Isana's breath rattled through a crushed windpipe. Her uneven steps scraped over the stone and dust.

He barely felt the sting when the fangs slid into his wrist. Pulling, restoring. Taking everything he had left. He gave it willingly, dreading all the same. Zephon sprawled across the rim of the sarcophagus, summoning every last scrap of strength. If all else failed, he would be too ruined to walk, let alone leave this place.

"_And I will finally be free of you disgusting wretches!"_

Zephon willed himself to his feet, tearing his wrist free. A groan sounded from the coffin. Frejke had more life now than he did, forced down his throat. Forcing him to awaken.

Isana loomed, all bloodstained face, dripping teeth, and a mind gone to smoldering ash. As the world swayed around him, he plunged the blade into her heart. This far-gone, it was fatal.

The howl in his head was triumphant. Of course he had played into the First One's hands. Then the chill passed him. Isana's form collapsed, dragging him to his knees. A hiss and a cry came from the sarcophagus while a gnarled hand spasmed blindly.

Zephon dragged the blade from her chest. Isana eyes were open, black and gold-ringed, and glazed with death. He barely saw what he was stabbing when he slashed down into the sarcophagus. Just enough to ebb some of the life it had taken. He let the knife clatter by his knees. One last push and he could grab the stone slab. It was thrice as heavy as before. One more pull and he dragged it screeching into place.

Perhaps the First One was shrieking at him. His senses were dulling by the moment.

Too much blood. Too much not inside him. His feet were numb as he stumbled into the main hall. Only corpses would applaud. If this was the end of him, it damned well would not be below a sea of rats.

Like as not his spark for the theatric was the only thing that got him to the throne. Zephon collapsed into its grisly seat. His wounds hardly bled anymore. Looking at a hand brindled with dead black veins, he knew there was little left to bleed. _To die, to sleep_—he could not remember the rest, though it was almost vampiric. The line between death and sleep was broken and blurred for his kind. On which side he would wake…he was much too tired to care.

* * *

The sting jarred him from his stolen serenity. Dragging open an annoyed eyelid, he could hardly find it in him to wonder. A hollow-cheeked man stood in front of him, armed with a crossbow. Its bolt dug into his cheek. The human's blue eyes and stubbled jaw were younger, but not unfamiliar. He had gotten a rather good look at Lord Sandulf after all.

Zephon could hardly find it in him to laugh.


End file.
